


Where Oceans Bleed Into The Sky

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The US Embassy in London was attacked and a list of CIA operatives was stolen. Unfortunately, the truth is a lot more complicated and simple than that.</p><p> </p><p>For the prompt: <a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=49635196#t49635196"> Ariadne, Arthur and Eames are spies on a mission. Ariadne is just joining the team and of course, both the guys develop an attraction to her. Being mission-oriented, Arthur is more reluctant.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're A Broken People

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't exactly follow the plot of "The Debt" as the prompt requested, since I still haven't seen it. So you get my own plotline with some influence from the IMDB summary. :) 
> 
> Story and chapter titles from Linkin Park's "The Catalyst."

The entire west side of Grosvenor Square was taken up by the United States Embassy. Beginning in 2001, a series of anti-terrorist devices have been installed in and around the embassy for its protection. The road running along the front of the embassy was closed completely to automobile traffic as a further precaution. A new location was chosen in 2008, with a winning design for it announced in 2010. It would be an energy efficient fortress in the midst of London, though ground breaking wouldn't begin until 2013. The current site in Grosvenor Square was elegantly done in marble, with gold accents and symmetrical placement of lights, overhead panels and even the windows facing the street. The visitor pavilions and monuments outside of the building were just across from the square, and generally during the day there was the hustle and bustle of various government agents, visitors ogling the designs, US citizens needing documents or other services from their government.

And in an instant, the entire front of the building exploded in a ball of fire and debris.

The Mayfair district was known for high end shopping and having some of the highest rents in the world. It was also a large commercial district, and contained major corporate headquarters, a concentration of hedge funds, real estate businesses and many different embassy offices besides the US Embassy. None of those other areas were damaged in the blast, and there were no other explosions within Mayfair that night.

There had been no formal functions planned that evening at the US Embassy; the President had already left the country and the September 11 memorial service was still in its planning stages. It was difficult to tell what the target of the explosion was supposed to be; none of the dignitaries likely invited to events were present, and most of the offices for daily functions were closed for the day. Personnel was limited to cleaning crews and the few offices still open after 5:30 pm, so injuries and deaths were few and far between. Structural damage was of more importance to those sent to contain and analyze the wreckage.

Within London, the bomb scene manager was a Detective Inspector from the Anti Terrorist Branch of New Scotland Yard. Given that this happened at an embassy, MI6 was contacted before the DI even set up the inner and outer cordons around the blast zone with the exhibits officer. Eames arrived at the same time that fire and ambulance services did, and he surveyed the controlled chaos dispassionately. He stayed beyond the outer cordon, blending in with the growing crowd of onlookers and advance news teams that were hoping to get an early look at the damage for their news feeds. Eames was tall, with broad shoulders, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. He knew he was fairly good looking, and wore a suit well if he chose to. In more casual clothing, he often deceptively looked as though he wasn't paying attention. This often caused him to be underestimated by the people he was sent after, which he liked. There was no point to expending more energy than he had to in his field.

Officers suited up and wore masks as they progressed inside the inner cordon to analyze the embassy lobby for debris and the presence of any toxic gases. The exhibits officer was already determining where the white taped zones would be once teams were cleared to enter the building to tend to the wounded or begin the forensics work. The officer that would act as lookout was already stationed and easy to spot, though it didn't seem as though falling glass or debris was a high risk at this point. Eames assumed that someone was already designated to go over the CCTV feed at New Scotland Yard.

Eames suppressed a wince when he recognized the Met's medical examiner wave the team's photographer over. He made a beeline for the lobby, and it wasn't long afterward that the bagging team arrived. The procedure was familiar, as it was the same regardless of jurisdiction. The exhibits officer separately bagged each hand, foot and head then sealed the bag with tape. The entire body was then wrapped in a plastic sheet and sealed prior to placement in a body bag and removed from the scene. Sure enough, as the officer was starting the bagging, another was arriving with body bags.

Shaking his head, Eames noticed the profile of a familiar dark head. He almost smiled as he took in the lanky figure that was standing in the crowd. He was tall and slim, with a runner's wiry musculature. He had dark hair and dark eyes, boyish features and a fierce scowl if under pressure. In order to offset his features, he dressed in suits and behaved as the consummate professional. He often slicked back his hair as well, which had a tendency to curl if left to its own devices. At the moment he was dressed in denims, trainers and a sweatshirt, as if he had been out jogging near the square rather than at work within the embassy. Eames made his way over to the familiar face, a smirk solidifying on his lips. "Agent."

The figure turned, and sure enough, scowled at him. "Eames."

"Oh, are we dispensing with titles now?" Eames drawled, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. He couldn't help but grin. "Arthur, I'm surprised you've dressed down for the occasion. Generally you're far smarter looking."

Arthur still scowled at him. Generally he was able to let the subtle mocking tone wash off his back, but at the moment it was grating. "Come to gloat?"

"Not at all. I've been tapped as the liaison for this event."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur looked back toward the mass of twisted metal, glass and stone that had been the façade at 24 Grosvenor Square. "Shouldn't you be off liaising, then?"

"You know as well as I do that they need to bag and tag everything they find." His voice dropped a fraction. "My time right now is best spent canvassing the crowd and trying to see if any of the onlookers are a little too curious for the average bystander."

"I have men on the inside," Arthur said after a moment. They both had been scanning the crowd surreptitiously, but no one stood out. "In the office, I mean. I wasn't working today."

"Hence the rather casual appearance."

Arthur ignored the remark. "Nash called me about this. He was inside when it went off, and he isn't hurt too badly. He's running an internal check now to see if anything was compromised when the blast went off."

Arthur had been working with the London Station of the CIA for the past several years. He had wound up working with Eames a few times, and the MI6 officer seemed to enjoy trying to rattle his cool. He knew it was partially because he kept his professional demeanor calm at all times, in part because of his youthful appearance. Other agents his same age had almost a weather beaten look to them, but Arthur could still pass for a man in university looking for entrance to one of the hip clubs in London. Usually that meant he was tapped to participate in stings and ops where a younger man would be necessary. He understood the reasoning behind it, but he would rather not be called "son" by random people when doing errands. As soon as Eames seemed to pick up on that irritation, he worried at it hoping to garner a response. He hadn't gotten one yet, but that only seemed to encourage him even more.

Eames gave a slight nod and for one didn't joke about Nash having the same last name as the Detective Chief Inspector of Metropolitan police. Nash was a much more squirrelly man than the homicide inspector was, and this was not a time for a joke like that. Even he had limits. "I suppose given the nature of the investigation, you'll likely wind up being the official go-between for our agencies."

Managing to suppress a sigh, Arthur nodded. "Could be. I think I'm first on the scene."

"I haven't seen any of your usual cohort," Eames agreed. "I came up the north side of the Square and stopped at the outer cordon. You?"

Glad that Eames was falling back to a professional stance rather than his usual irreverence, Arthur allowed himself to relax fractionally. "South side. The crowd wasn't as big there, but it's bound to be a matter of time."

"I can't confirm, of course, but I don't think our man stuck around to view his handiwork."

"No need to, really," Arthur commented, nodding toward the reporters starting to speak in front of their cameras. "All he would need is a subscription to the BBC."

Eames snorted. "We'll talk with the Met, see what we can see while your man figures out what might have been taken."

"Either way, we're probably not going to like it," Arthur intoned.

"See now, that's what I like about you. Always looking on the bright side, you are." Eames clapped Arthur on the upper back. "Listen, I know some of those blokes over there from when I was loaned out to MI5. I'll see what I can unofficially find out and offer. You can circle your way around, see what our fine Londoners think about this mess."

Arthur nodded. It wasn't as though he could charge up to the DI and demand to be allowed access to the building. His eyes tracked one of the Metropolitan police officers bringing a heavy body bag toward the waiting van for it to be taken to the morgue. Sighing, he moved through the growing crowd with his ears open. There wasn't much else going on that evening, so there was plenty of speculation amongst the tourists and gawkers.

It wasn't long before he could feel his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Arthur checked it quickly and frowned at the text from Nash. _Vital stats doc copied. Running second sweep now._

Well, fuck.

Arthur wanted to say that Nash was screwing up on the details, that he was making a huge mistake and it would bring everything crashing around their ears. But if he was referring to what Arthur thought he was, London Station could potentially be in big, big trouble.

"Care for a fag?"

Arthur turned at the sound of Eames' teasing voice and glared at him. "No."

"Pity," Eames taunted, lighting up his cigarette and taking a deep drag. "I'm guessing you've come up empty."

"From the crowd, at least."

Eames' gaze sharpened, and he gave a fractional nod. "Well, then. Shall we go speak with my good friend Freddy Simmons?" He slung an arm around Arthur's shoulders, earning himself a glower of irritation. "You're off the clock and so am I, nominally. It's a Thursday night. I doubt you've an appointment to keep."

"Eames..."

"The game is information, is it not? Then let's play the game in much nicer environs."

"What you consider nice is actually dubious."

"As always, Arthur, you rely on condescension. One day you'll find I don't actually deserve it. Our agencies are friends, you know."

"That doesn't mean that we are."

"You wound me, Arthur, truly." Eames started leading Arthur toward the other side of the outer cordon. He gestured to one of the uniformed men. "A word, Freddy?"

"I was heading in now that there's something for me to work on. I'm leaving Molly on site to determine time and cause of death."

"Can we catch a ride with you, then?"

"In an official capacity?" Fred asked, suspicion in his tone. He was older, beginning to run to fat, his hairline starting to recede at his temples. The rest of his blond hair was sprinkled with gray, and his brown eyes sized up both agents critically. "Who's the other bloke? New officer?"

"Could be official, might not." Eames shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. "No call came down on that yet, but I guess it might. This here is Agent Arthur Blake, CIA. Also not officially involved in this yet, but you know how these things are." He flashed Fred an almost predatory smile. "You wouldn't leave a junior examiner on site unless you think the bodies bagged already are worth immediate analysis."

"I'd like to avoid an international incident," he answered, bristling.

"Fastastic. So would we. Let's ride along with you, eh? I for one took the Tube in."

Fred sighed and gestured for them to follow him. "You touch nothing, Eames. Understood?"

"Very much so," Eames agreed. He took a last drag of his cigarette and then ground it out beneath his shoe. "But perhaps we might offer more insight into what you're looking for when you come across something."

"I don't think I have the bomber," Fred told them as he drove to the London mortuary where he was planning to do the examination. "But I may have an accomplice."

"You do have most interesting things to share," Eames said approvingly with a smile. "Do you think they'll get Interpol involved, or will stay all in Her Majesty's services?"

"Something like this, you never know. I haven't called them," Fred muttered as he pulled up to the Mortuary.

The Iain West Forensic Suite was an extension to the existing Westminster Public Mortuary, and had become the foremost place for all suspicious deaths. There was a CCTV viewing area with a live link to the post mortem room, and that was where Fred had Arthur and Eames stay. Senior investigating officers often stayed there to watch forensic pathologists at work without disturbing them or contaminating the evidence. "It's going to be a long and boring one," Fred called out as he began to set in to work. "Just let me know if you're going to duck out."

"Will do, thanks," Eames replied, then stood back to watch the proceedings. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Arthur checked his phone for another text from Nash. "It's safe enough to talk here, Arthur. What's the damage?"

"Vital stats documentation," Arthur admitted. "I'm not aware of any advance warning or threats of something like this."

"Wait... Would that be a list of all the London agents, or all of Europe?" Eames asked, brows furrowed as he took in the enormity of what Arthur had told him.

"Likely just London operatives, but that's bad enough. Depending on the date of the documents stolen, it could be the current hundred or so agents, or it could be the list that was sent on from here after getting briefed."

Eames sighed and watched Fred Simmons at work. The CCTV definitely lessened the horror that could come from watching a coroner peel apart a human body looking for clues. "Terror squads are likely going to crawl around that embassy, try to find who did it."

"There hasn't been any uptick in threats, and we've been listening for chatter everywhere. Not a word was said about this." Arthur put his phone away. "Which means it was meticulously planned and not something part of a larger cell."

"Sleepers, you think? Or a solo op?"

"Solo, maybe. Which would be out of my immediate field of expertise."

"Admitting fault?" Eames asked, eyebrow lofted in amusement.

Arthur snorted and took out his phone again. "I should probably call Cobb. Have you met him? Works with Interpol."

Eames' expression didn't give anything away, but Arthur could tell the intelligence officer wasn't pleased with hearing about the possible involvement. "Is he in this country's bureau, then? I thought he transferred out."

"No, he scaled back how much he's doing. His wife isn't well."

"Oh, that's too bad. Anything serious?"

"I don't know. It wasn't exactly a social call, the last time I contacted his office." Making up his mind, Arthur dialed Dom Cobb's office number. At the very least, he could leave a message that could be responded to the morning. The entire agency was a 24-hour information network and liaison service, but that didn't mean individuals were at their desks the entire day. He left his contact information and a formal request to meet.

"I usually get in touch with Saito. I've worked with him more."

"He thinks he owns the internet," Arthur groused.

"You're saying he doesn't?" Eames asked with an amused smile. Arthur snorted in amusement, then turned to the CCTV. "Terrorists, you think?"

"September 11 isn't that far away." Arthur looked back at Eames. "What else could it be?"

It wasn't derision for Eames' question, he could tell. Arthur had no time for idiots, and his specialty sometimes seemed to be poking holes in others' theories, finding the weak spots in plans and making sure there were contingencies in place. If anything, he was glad he saw Arthur at Grosvenor Square. Some of his fellow agents were cheerless sticks in the mud, even more so than Arthur could be. Arthur was planner and he was serious, but that was how he got the job done. He didn't waste time needlessly.

"I'm sure it could be any number of things, especially with that document that went missing. It might be terrorism, it might not."

"Cobb still collates that kind of information. He'd be able to tell me if there's a pattern."

"Other embassies, you mean?"

"Yeah," Arthur agreed with a nod, still watching Fred Simmons meticulously go through the body on the slab. His eyes sharpened as Simmons started to unbind the head of the man on the slab. "I haven't been to other field offices. I've been either at Langley or London Station. I think I know just about everyone here."

"That's... devotion, I suppose."

"Yeah. And you know what? That man there _isn't_ the evening security guard."

Eames' attention snapped to the CCTV. "Well, then. Things just got a bit more interesting."

***

Agent Dominic Cobb was in his late thirties, his blond hair a little long in the front and his blue eyes almost caught in a perpetual squint. He wore a dark gray suit that bunched in the shoulders and didn't bother with a tie. His silver briefcase banged hollowly on Eames' desk at Vauxhall Gardens and he all but ignored the petite brunette standing behind him in a highly structured dove gray skirt suit that was likely meant to make her appear more professional. She had a youthful face beneath the dark brown hair pulled up into a severe bun, and her golden eyes took in details around her. Eames supposed that she was an assistant of some sort, part of an advance team sent in to analyze data along with him and Arthur. He licked his lips a little as he took in her appearance, smiling at her before he meant to.

Arthur was dressed in one of his suits, which fit his frame much better than the one gracing Cobb's limbs. Eames liked to joke that Arthur purchased his suits on Savile Row, as it wasn't too far from the embassy, though those would far above his pay grade. Arthur hated that Eames noticed these things about him, which was part of the fun as far as he was concerned. Pushing paper and gathering intelligence only occupied part of his mind.

"Cobb," Arthur said, reaching out to shake the Interpol agent's hand. "Glad you could make it over so quickly."

It had been only the day before, and Arthur rather doubted that Cobb would be allowed to shunt aside a potential case of this magnitude. Still, it didn't hurt to be polite.

"I'm here for the prelim," Cobb said, opening his briefcase. He pulled out a few folders and handed them to the young woman behind him. "Agent Ariadne Singer, this is Agent Arthur Blake of the CIA and Intelligence Officer Eames of MI6." Cobb gestured to each named agent as he did the hurried interruptions. "There are still things coming in on yesterday's explosion, and I'll want to head to Mombasa myself to confer with a colleague about a different case. Ariadne can stay here and help you with this."

"Ariadne," Arthur greeted with a brisk nod. "You're new to the team, right? I think I've met most of the others that Cobb has worked with."

"Agent Stephen Miles is retiring," Ariadne offered. "I'm taking his place in the analysis."

"First case on the team?" Eames guessed as Cobb took out more file folders.

"First case," she replied, lifting her chin a notch.

"Brilliant," Eames replied with a wide grin, startling her. "Fewer bad habits to unlearn."

Cobb glowered at Eames, who kept his grin on his face. Ariadne offered him a small smile in return, but her gaze was tuned more to Arthur. He had worked with Cobb often enough before, and it was obvious that Eames didn't mind working with a new recruit.

"Welcome to the team," Arthur said, holding out his hand to her. She shook it firmly, her smile widening a fraction in relief. She had expected to be kept out of the loop due to her inexperience, and was glad that it wasn't being held against her.

The embassy bombing was still being processed, and forensics still had work to do. Bodies were bagged and tagged, ready to be processed by Simmons. Arthur's input about the first body the night before had led to a more careful analysis of facial features and the pattern of injuries. The man was dressed in a guard's uniform and took most damage to his chest and head. Simmons had indicated that original photographs of the body placement seemed to indicate that he had been kneeling down near the actual bomb and had been thrown backward in the blast.

They pored over the preliminary data obtained from the autopsies and bomb analysis. There was going to be a larger team involved, of course, as well as the various forensics experts. The four were acting as an advance team, going through the data to try to find a pattern that fit known bomb makers or tie it to particular threats. There had not been a secondary bomb following the first blast, as well as no warnings given to news media outlets or to the embassy itself. The bomb had clearly been a detonation of high explosives, and it looked as though they had been placed in a package prior to it being triggered.

"I'll let you go over the rest of this," Cobb said that afternoon, looking at Ariadne. "Call me if you can."

"Leaving for Mombasa?" Arthur asked, concerned.

"Not yet. But Mal..." His lips pulled tight in an unhappy expression, and he shoved his arms back into his jacket. "She's not well," he said finally.

"So take her to the doctor," Eames asked, not understanding why he was so concerned.

"She's seen four," Cobb replied in clipped tones. "I can't leave her alone for too long."

"But all this..." Eames began, protesting.

"Ariadne will be able to help you. She's fresh out of school, but she's good. Maybe even better than me on a good day, and I have to admit this isn't a good day for me." He gathered up some of his things and closed his briefcase. He didn't see the flash of surprise on Ariadne's face at his pronouncement, but he clearly believed it to be true.

They all sat in silence as Cobb left Eames' office. "Well, then," Arthur began lamely.

"I don't know about your lot," Eames said, pointing at Arthur, "but I'm expected to tell my superiors something about what's going on. At least an initial idea for them to work with. Is this simply Met affairs, or do we need to be involved on some level? Not to mention official or unofficially. I'm still only unofficially involved, you understand."

"When do you need to answer to them?" Ariadne asked, looking between the two men.

"ASAP," Eames replied. "Most of the day is gone already, but that's Cobb for you. Never say in one word what you can say in ten, and never say it once if you can repeat it a dozen times." He smirked at Arthur when the agent was about to open his mouth. "Am I wrong?"

"Not entirely," Arthur said. "But not everyone is as succinct as I am."

Ariadne commandeered Eames' computer to use her login information again. She had first logged into I-24/7 to enter the preliminary data and prints that Fred Simmons had provided from the autopsies he and his colleagues had completed as of that time. Logging in again, she could see that there were no matches on most of the bodies, and they remained blue notices. The one that Arthur had identified, however, had a match. "Red notice," she said, looking up.

"What?"

"Your guy has a name," Ariadne said, pointing to her screen. "Mark Cobol, offences listed include ammunition/components/weapons/explosives, assault/maltreatment, bribery/corruption, criminal organization and torture. Charges are filed in multiple member nations, so likely multiple NCB's would have gotten involved in that one if he was alive." She looked up with a quirked eyebrow. "Charmer. Too bad he's dead now, or else you could have gotten who his employer was out of him. Most Interpol agents never were able to find that out."

"He's not the only Cobol," Arthur pointed out.

"Meaning what? Try to infiltrate his organization and see who hired the bastard to bomb your embassy?" Eames scoffed. "Good luck. None of us would have the bona fides."

"A document containing the list of known CIA agents in London was stolen. It's encrypted, and as far as we know the decryption key is still safe," Arthur told them both. "He could be selling it to the highest bidder."

"Not his style," Ariadne disagreed. "He's an arms dealer and doesn't mind getting his hands dirty," she said, pointing to the red notice screen. "I can access more details for you, but he's not involved in the spy game."

"So then what is this?" Eames asked. He frowned. "Because knowing the agents would be useful in this business. You could find them, find out their weakness. Once you had that, you'd know just where to twist and get what you want."

"Unless London Station isn't the target," Arthur said slowly. He looked at Ariadne. "Are there any hits on the other embassies or CIA home offices?"

"Let me check."

Her fingers flew over the keys, and Arthur took a moment to take in her profile. He ruthlessly squelched down any longing he had to get to know her better. They were on a mission and he couldn't afford to be compromised. Look at Cobb; while he had a wife and family and generally did well with his work, he was clearly suffering now because of his home life. Arthur valued his career and the job far too much to jeopardize it with a relationship, no matter how much he might want one. Other agents sometimes said he simply hadn't found the right person worth the risk, which was certainly true. Emotionless flings were one thing, but the desperate emotional attachment to another person could introduce a weakness, and he already had far too many for his liking.

"I'm thinking this will likely turn into a longer arrangement," Eames said as Ariadne looked through various Interpol databases. "I'm not opposed to that, of course," murmured, sliding his appreciative gaze over Ariadne. Arthur was startled by that, and by the same gaze being directed at him. "If the Cobols are involved, I fear this may be a mite more complicated than even we thought. They have fingers in several different terrorist organizations. Hard not to, as arms dealers and weaponsmiths."

"Meaning what?" Arthur asked, mouth running dry. He'd worked with Eames before and never felt as unsettled as this before. He couldn't imagine why that was.

All right, he could, and the reason was currently tapping away at the keyboard, brows furrowed endearingly in thought.

"We may be looking at an international incident, not just some nut job on the take." Eames smiled at Arthur's discomfited look. "Oh, we can dream that it's as small as that, but we know that the odds aren't in our favor for that being the truth. You mustn't be afraid to dream a bit bigger, darling," he drawled, lips curling into a smile. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do in your profession?"

Whatever Arthur would have replied was interrupted by Ariadne, who made a half satisfied sound when her search results came back. "We've got more hits."

"Bombs at the embassies?" Arthur asked, startled.

"No." She looked up and Arthur could see the thrill of the chase in her eyes. "Cobol's associates being sighted at other US embassies and one CIA home office. Gentlemen, I do believe there is something much larger than espionage going on. The bombing yesterday was likely a diversion of some kind, and that stolen documentation is only part of a bigger puzzle."

Arthur looked at Eames, feeling both disgruntled and exhilarated at once. There was nothing quite like the mental acrobatics involved in this line of work, but it also tended to involve a high personal cost as well. "You see? This is what happens when you dream bigger."

Eames laughed, delighted. He loved being out in the field and solving puzzles. "Well, then. I can't wait to begin."

***  
***


	2. The Sins Of Our Tongue

Nothing official on the books, Eames still managed to wrangle time off from MI6 to chase down leads in the embassy bombing case. It would have been easy enough to reassign all London Station personnel to another location, or to the Foreign Broadcast Information Service, but it would take time for paperwork and visas to clear. Arthur did get the go ahead from his superiors to track down the stolen documentation. He didn't get a chance to contact Nash again regarding the second sweep of their offices, and Arthur wasn't willing to pull rank to try to bypass London Metropolitan police to enter the building. There was an official team from MI6 and the CIA looking into the bombing and separate teams making sure that the embassy functions could be conducted in a different location. Two agents were easy to lose in the shuffle, and Interpol's assistance in the form of Ariadne Singer was easy to secure as well.

Their first stop was going to be Prague; the US embassy had remained largely untouched there, but it looked as though one of Cobol's associates had managed to breach the CIA station. No longer openly affiliated with Radio Free Europe, instead agents worked through affiliations with the embassy or an office hidden within the Czech Statistical Office. It wasn't known at all, yet one of Cobol's known associates had been outside the CSO. That likely was the primary target for whoever had hired Cobol, and a natural place to investigate first. The US embassies in other cities were well protected and had certainly not been breached. It would be easy enough to get to Krakow or Berlin from Prague, and a flight to Ruzyně International Airport from Heathrow was also easy to arrange.

None of the agents had a flat in Mayfair; rents were too impossibly expensive there, and it was far easier to rent a flat in a separate area and simply take the Tube in. Interpol London didn't technically have a separate office, so the agents involved in that National Central Bureau worked out of New Scotland Yard in Westminster. Arthur usually went to Bond Street in order to get to Grosvenor Square and Eames would use the Vauxhall station if he was staying somewhere outside that district to get to Vauxhall Cross. This happened to be one of the rare times he was still in London; he liked overseas intelligence work, and preferred much warmer climes if he could request it. He offered to have the others stay at his flat in Vauxhall prior to trying to drive to Heathrow. "It's best if we go very early," he had explained as their time off was being negotiated, "and my flat is mostly empty, anyway. I'm hardly ever there, so it's a good place to stay before we leave and pretend to be other people in Prague."

Ariadne frowned. "But there would be a Bureau there for me to access..."

"Yes, but we don't know who hired on Cobol," Eames explained. "Considering that he and his associates knew exactly where to go in order to find CIA stations troubles me."

"This doesn't fit any particular terrorist pattern," she told them, frown still in place. "It's not even Cobol's usual pattern."

"We don't know what the pattern is, exactly," Arthur said quietly, features drawn into a scowl of discontent. He looked at the two others, expression softening a fraction. "We don't have official sanction from any agency and we have nothing to work on but hunches and maybes. We need to do better than that."

"Your condescension, Arthur, is duly noted."

"If all you're going to do is snipe at each other," Ariadne began in severe tones heavy with disapproval, "I can just go home and meet you at Heathrow. It's not as though I have a false identity prepared at this point."

"I may be able to help with that," Eames offered with a conciliatory smile. "I have some skill with forgeries. It's gotten me through customs in Bombay, Mombasa and Capetown, at least." He held out a hand for Ariadne. "Identities are easy enough to craft if you keep to a few basic concepts, then let the other person fill in the blanks."

"Create just enough detail to be plausible," Ariadne replied, taking his hand after the briefest of hesitations. He nodded at her, pleased. "So who would we be?"

Eames caressed her knuckles gently, smiling wider at the way her eyes dilated and Arthur seemed to bristle in jealousy. "Who do you want to be?"

Ariadne blinked in surprise. "What?"

"We're going to try to catch a terrorist. But they can have ordinary lives, too, and they also have their cover identities. It's going to be a tricky balance, pretending to be someone pretending to be someone else." He gave her a crooked and endearing smile. "Haven't you ever wanted to be a spy, dear girl? This is your big chance."

She parted her lips and looked between the two men. "I haven't been to Prague before. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"They speak English there well enough," Arthur told her, glad to be able to offer something concrete. "You don't have to speak Czech, though that will probably help. German's another good language to know to get along there."

"I know some German. It's not as good as my English or French, but it's enough to let me get around a bit. I accompanied Cobb to Bonn right after I was assigned here."

"Then that's a good start," Eames told her, almost soothingly. He could tell she was at once exhilarated and overwhelmed by the idea. She was used to collating and distributing information or acting as a go between in her official Interpol role. Here, she would be going undercover into the field to assist them in ferreting out a possible terrorist. It was a completely different role, and not one she was used to. Hell, it wasn't even what Interpol agents were supposed to do. "And Prague is a huge cultural center, too. It's become fairly cosmopolitan. You could pose as someone looking for work, whether it's in industry, computing or service-oriented. If you like, you could be an actress looking for work. You could pose as a university student, since they have a number of good schools there. Tech and research are other areas that are booming now, but it will take a little more technological know-how on your part to be able to blend in and fool others into believing you're one of them."

Arthur eyed Eames critically. "You've been there before."

"It's a beautiful city," he replied with a shrug. "I've been to most places even tangentially involved in MI6 affairs in Europe at least once. Warm enough there, though I like the tropics a lot better both for the climate and the intrigue. But the Czech Republic has enough going for it and there are other intelligence officers working there that I don't have to."

"We'd need a convincing cover story for the three of us to be there and for us knowing each other," Arthur said, thinking aloud.

"They do have legal same sex marriages there," Eames teased. He laughed aloud when Arthur glowered at him. "Oh, it was just a joke, Arthur. No need to get your pants in a twist. Unless you like that sort of thing, of course."

Ariadne sighed. "What excuse would get us near enough to the CSO?" she asked, trying to get the two men back on track. "Whatever cover story we use, it still has to be something to get at least one of us in there. And at least one of us will have to be on the hunt for the terrorist group most likely responsible for the bombing and theft."

Arthur flashed her a grateful smile, and Ariadne gave him a soft, almost shy one in return. He looked away after that, and Ariadne looked down at her lap. Perhaps she was overthinking his reaction to her, she told herself. He wasn't actively trying to flirt with her the way Eames sometimes did, though he was flirting with Arthur as well and lived in Vauxhall. He didn't do things directly, and Eames seemed to enjoy inverting and playing off of stereotypes. She didn't have as much experience doing that sort of thing, and Arthur's steadfast attention to work and ethics was easier to understand.

"Listen, we've got something of a time limit," Eames said in all seriousness, looking at both Arthur and Ariadne. "Getting into the city under cover will be the easy part. Figuring out what Cobol and his men wanted is going to be the hard part. And we may not be able to, but we'll still need to head to the other cities to find out. I don't relish the thought of going in solo when we don't know who we're dealing with. By now, you'd think an organization would be claiming credit for the bomb, but no one is even falsely taking credit."

Ariadne nodded. "This isn't political, then. At least, not in the sense that they're trying to capitalize on the September 11 anniversary or force policy changes with the United States. Those areas always invite very vocal groups to get their changes made."

"Why don't we figure it out over dinner?" Eames offered. "My treat? There's plenty of good places locally if you don't trust my ability to cook."

"Well, can you?" Ariadne asked, a teasing smile on her face.

"Very well, actually. Care to try my skill?"

She looked at him, amusement in her expression. Everything seemed to carry a flirtatious vibe if he wasn't truly discussing MI6 concerns or a potential job. Arthur was irritated by that habit, but he seemed much more serious. "Absolutely," she answered, grinning after a moment. What was the harm in flirting a little? She was so consumed by work otherwise, and it kept her from worrying that this entire operation would fall apart because she was out of her element.

Eames put together a quick meal as Arthur set the table. Ariadne helped him get items from Eames' cabinets, most of which were empty. This was not a place he lived in often, after all, and he had the essentials only. Dinner was a quiet affair, and Ariadne was surprised by the fact that he didn't switch the knife and fork placement between hands the way she and Arthur did. "That must be an American thing," he commented idly as he lifted his fork to his mouth with his left hand. "Brits generally don't. It's one of those odd cultural quirks. Like pants are underwear and not trousers," he offered with a playful grin. Ariadne laughed, but Arthur looked distinctly uncomfortable by that comment.

Almost oblivious to Arthur's discomfort, Eames pointed with his knife as he spoke. "In any case, we need to figure out what would work best as a cover. The Americans could have used something besides the CSO, but since they didn't, that's what we've got to work with."

"It wasn't supposed to be an area people would want to break into," Arthur replied, voice steely and tense. "The CSO is a statistics office, after all. They count ballots, run the census, release information about the country. It's boring and not the kind of thing you would automatically think of when you think of the CIA."

"Radio Free Europe, maybe," Ariadne offered with a shrug. "What?" she asked when both men turned to look at her. "I've been reading my history lately. I want to know what I'm getting myself into with this mission of ours."

"Fair enough. So if we're clerical staff, that's an in," Eames mused. "Though I don't fancy having to actually run the numbers on a regular basis, and that's something we might have to do as part of a cover." He shot Arthur a playful grin. "Might be right up your alley, eh?" Arthur didn't deign to answer, so Eames shrugged. "Do you think you could do that?" he asked Ariadne. "I might be able to mock up proper documentation so that you'd get through into CIA offices."

"Then I might as well go in as myself," Arthur cut in sharply. "That's not going to help us find out why Cobol or his kind are being hired."

"That's just one aspect of the plan I'm forming," Eames told him, a measure of impatience in his tone. "You can't just take everything apart all once, Arthur. Something like this needs a little finesse, a little workaround on the system. Prague Station may be expecting a few agents being sent their way now that London's all in shambles. But you're not there to take on official work, and you just need to know how far Cobol's goons got in. You just need to find out if anything was stolen. We'd also need to find out where the underground is in the city and see if anyone made a move for the documents we _know_ were stolen, which is going to be infinitely more difficult. I'll volunteer myself for that one."

Arthur looked at him in concern. "They'll run you down hard, Eames."

He couldn't help but grin at Arthur. "So I will lead them on a merry chase. I rather enjoy that part of the game, actually."

"So Arthur and I will go in as new recruits to go through their data?" Ariadne asked.

"At least in Prague. Depending on what we find, we may need to play it out differently in Krakow or Berlin. Or god forbid, if we still have to go to Istanbul," Eames replied. "It's beastly hot there right now, even for me."

Ariadne looked at Arthur. "Do you think I'd pass as a clerk affiliated with the CSO or the CIA?"

His gaze raked over her form, and for a moment she almost felt naked in front of him. It wasn't coldly impersonal. If anything, there was unadulterated appreciation there, and he clearly hadn't looked his fill by the time he averted his gaze. "Yes, I think so. You wouldn't have to pull your hair so severely back, and the suit you wore the other day at Vauxhall Cross actually only served to make you appear even younger than you are. Unless you _want_ others to underestimate you by thinking you're young and inexperienced."

She blinked in surprise at his assessment; she hadn't thought that he had even really noticed her appearance until just now. "I'd hoped to blend in at the Bureau."

"You don't," Arthur blurted. He then gave a sharp shake of his head to indicate that he wanted to correct himself. "I mean, I'd notice you anywhere, and it's too easy to see why they hired you on. You see patterns and catch on quickly. Blending in won't suit you."

Eames was smiling at the both of them, and let Ariadne clear the table. He leveled his smile at Arthur. "And here I thought you didn't respond to anyone at all. If anyone had asked me about you before today, I would've said you were asexual. Nice to see I'm wrong, actually."

Arthur glowered at him. "Why do you care?"

"Somehow I don't think you'd indulge," Eames continued as if Arthur hadn't spoken. "Care if I do? If she's amenable, at least. I don't get the sense that she would be terribly opposed if I really paid attention to her considerable charms."

"You don't know when to shut the fuck up, do you?" Arthur hissed.

"Of course not." Eames shot him a pleased grin. "It only took you this long to figure that out?"

Arthur didn't dignify that comment with a response. "I'll head back home, then," he said, rising from his seat. "Ariadne, I can accompany you to your flat if you like." He didn't even look back toward Eames. "We're not leaving right away, and you'd have to pack for a trip. I can help you, if you need it."

She brightened as he spoke. "That would be great, thanks." She looked between the two of them, not picking up on their prior tension. "Is there anything specific I should look to bring with me, whether for a cover story or for real access?"

"Just think professional wear," Arthur replied. "What you have works well."

Eames couldn't think of any excuse to keep the both of them at his flat that evening, but they agreed to stay overnight the following day prior to going to Heathrow. Arthur stayed close to Ariadne as they walked through Vauxhall toward the Tube. It was a fairly popular part of London, with plenty of clubs, restaurants and bars. It was relatively safe, much more so than the southern or eastern parts of the city. Pickpocketing wasn't all that uncommon, especially in certain districts that tourists went to, and Arthur slid his hand down to the small of her back to make sure she stayed close by. She gave him a sidelong glance, lips curling slightly, but didn't complain about his touch. If anything, she seemed to lean into him.

Ariadne lived in South Bank, which seemed to suit what Arthur knew of her. They talked about the markets and the theater performances that she liked. She was amused by the skateboarders under the Royal Festival Hall and she liked that her flat was an easy distance to Westminster. She hadn't lived in London long, but had been in Paris prior to her move. Before attending university there, she had grown up in Canada. In comparison, Arthur had lived in the United States for the entirety of his childhood and college years, and had only come to London as part of his formal assignment.

He couldn't think of a graceful way to refuse coming up to her flat to help her pack, considering he had offered to help. But it was late, she had a slight flush to her cheeks and certainly didn't seem opposed to his attention, if he chose to give it. They were able to talk about a number of things, and he found her sharp wit refreshing, especially as he wasn't the object of her jokes. Eames tended to poke fun at him too much, but he wasn't caustic about it the way some of his colleagues could be. That reminded him the he hadn't heard from Nash in a while, but seeing Ariadne in her element made him forget about Nash.

Shoes kicked off and hair undone, she was tiny. He had noticed that before, of course, and especially next to Eames' much bulkier frame. In her own space, she seemed almost fragile, someone he had to protect. He knew logically that she was intelligent and had some skill to protect herself from attack. Even so, he had the urge to protect her from any harm, make sure the potentially seedy aspects of the intelligence game didn't touch her. It was startling in its intensity, and he had to turn away to keep from grabbing her and kissing her thoroughly. If he started, he might never get back to his own flat.

He wound up looking at photos on her wall, pictures of her with her parents in Canada or in Paris. Apparently she had lived there for some time before choosing to join Interpol, and Ariadne was full of proud smiles as she took in the photos he was looking at. Arthur could tell that she loved fiercely by the way she moved or her eyes lit up when she talked about her family members and the trips they had taken together. She was an only child as he was, which meant that her relationship with her parents or her aunts and uncles were precious to her.

She certainly wasn't shy about getting his opinion regarding the clothes she should pack or what kind of persona she would likely have to adopt as a new CIA agent. Arthur was discomfited by how easy they were getting along with each other. Usually it took a long time for him to feel comfortable around others, but he was drawn to her. This was probably the feeling that others got around their significant others, and Arthur tried hard to resist it. _You're supposed to know better,_ he tried telling himself. _You're not a kid with a crush._

But she was interested, too. All he had to do was lean over and steal a kiss. Arthur was already imagining what her bare skin would look like, fantasizing about the way she would taste, how she would sound writhing beneath him in ecstasy.

Arthur took a calming breath and simply helped to fold the clothes she handed him. He tried not to think about the fabrics and how they felt between his fingers, how they looked draped over her body. He had to focus, keep his mind on the mission. Distraction meant death and destruction. This wasn't a game, after all. He couldn't gamble with peoples' lives.

Ariadne packed her own underwear and lingerie, thank God, though she didn't seem to pick up on Arthur's inner tension. Or perhaps she was and simply assumed it was for the mission they were about to undertake. Once the suitcase was all zipped up, Arthur turned to her intending to bid her goodnight. He had his own suitcase to pack, after all, though he kept a few things permanently packed in a carryon bag just in case. She was smiling at him, an almost tender edge to her expression and placed a hand on his chest. Ariadne kissed him, soft and gentle, a question in the move. She would back off if he asked her to, and some part of Arthur wished that he didn't have to ask that of her.

"We're working," he managed to choke out when the kiss broke. His hands had gone to her hips of their own accord, and he wanted to drag her back against him or push her back onto her bed and cover her body with his. Arthur would have to push himself away from her, but he couldn't bring himself to do that either. "We can't let ourselves be compromised," he said.

It wasn't a yes and wasn't a no, but something nebulous in between that he didn't want to define.

Ariadne backed away a few steps and he missed her warmth immediately. "It was worth a shot," she murmured, and they both gave each other rueful smiles.

"Ariadne—"

"Maybe after—" she said at the same time.

They both fell silent. "I should go," Arthur said finally, voice soft. There might have been longing in his eyes. "We're leaving soon, and we have to get ready."

"Perhaps our cover identities could be involved," Ariadne blurted. "It wouldn't be a compromise then, would it?"

"It could be worse," Arthur murmured. "Because then whoever we're up against would grab one of us to use against the other. And it would work."

Mulling that over, Ariadne nodded unhappily. "I'm not sorry I kissed you," she said defiantly as he turned to leave the bedroom.

Arthur halfway turned back toward her and let the corner of his lips curl into a smile. "Neither am I. I'm just sorry it wasn't after everything is over."

She didn't see him out. It was probably better that way.

***

"You seem a little down, darling," Eames commented as Ariadne arrived at his flat. He looked at her in concern and reached out for her suitcase. "Come in, tell me about it. Maybe I can help."

"Not likely," Ariadne said with a careless shrug. "But thank you."

"Are you worried about the trip to Prague?" he asked. Knowing it was her first real outing in the field, he couldn't help but worry about her. "Don't worry, I made the paperwork flawless. I may have also convinced some rather unsavory characters to fill out the identity, if you ever get tracked, and I have a backup to escape the country if you can't do it as yourself."

Touched, Ariadne gave him a little smile as she sat down on his sofa. "You definitely planned ahead for this."

"Arthur isn't the only one that can develop a plan, you know," he teased in response.

At the way her jaw ticked at Arthur's name, Eames could only guess he was the source of her current mood. "Ah," he murmured. "Did he say something? Or do something?"

"More like what he didn't do," Ariadne muttered darkly, then flushed when she realized what she had said aloud. "Look, Eames, I mean..."

Eames' laughter cut her off. "Sorry, Ariadne. I'm not making fun of you, promise. But you have to realize, he's so driven. It's work orientation for him. He's noticed you, of course, he'd have to be bloody blind not to, and that he isn't. But it's always going to be work first for him. I can't imagine him ever giving this up, even for the fairest of charms."

Ariadne sighed. "Am I that obvious?"

He sat down next to her after depositing her suitcase down beside the sofa. "I only see it because I've been looking at you the same way the two of you look at each other."

Shocked, Ariadne only gaped at him. "I thought... I thought you were joking."

Eames let his fingers trace the curve of her cheek. "That way, you get to accept or reject as you will, no pressure. And it's no pressure now, Ariadne. My interest is simply that. Interest. It doesn't have to go anywhere. Wouldn't be the first time."

"And the other time?" she couldn't help but ask.

His smile was knowing and slightly sad. "Still there, poppet. Not going anywhere, not doing anything. Work ethic can be such a cock block, isn't it?"

Ariadne laughed a little, then worked the words around in her head. "Wait... _Arthur?"_

"You've seen him in those suits," Eames replied with a laugh. "Can you blame me?"

"Well, no, but..."

Eames' mouth descended on hers, unhurried and gentle. He had one hand cupping her face, the other at her hip, his thumb tenderly tracing the bone through her clothes. She could back away if she wanted to, or pretend that nothing had happened between them. It was the way that Arthur wanted to proceed, and Eames had all but told her she could do the same with him if she wanted to. Instead, Ariadne threaded one hand through his hair and kept her other on his chest. She opened her mouth to deepen the kiss and felt his sigh of relief.

After their kiss broke, he leaned his forehead down to touch it to hers. "I will protect you in Prague, Ariadne. You needn't worry about it."

"I wasn't," she lied.

He grinned at her, indicating that he knew the lie for what it was. "Of course, poppet. I would have even if you didn't kiss me back, you know. The three of us, we're all we can rely on once we leave Heathrow. I suspect there are dirty players out there in the field, and we'll have to be careful. Our little team of three will be out there on our own, no formal avowals from our home agencies. It's dangerous. I'd be more worried if you held no concerns at all. But I'd lay my life on the line to keep you safe if needs must."

"You don't have to do that."

"I said if needs must, not that I planned to do so at the first opportunity," Eames teased.

Ariadne laughed, just as he hoped she would. Getting up, he moved to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please," she murmured.

And if his hands lingered over hers, Ariadne told herself that it was merely to settle her nerves and let her know he was there. She could feel his kiss on her lips and there was still the ghost of the one she shared with Arthur. Who hadn't said no, who had implied that something might happen once they had figured out this mess with the stolen documents.

No matter what happened, it was going to be messy. Someone was going to get hurt in the end, and she could only hope that it didn't hurt too much if it was her.

***

Eames suggested a last meal out in London and perhaps going to a club to unwind. "Also, good practice for your new personae," he suggested when Arthur glowered at the suggestion. "Regular office staff do go out to clubs to relax and dance the night away before becoming office drones once again." He grinned shamelessly at Arthur. "Come now, don't tell me you go back to your flat and do absolutely nothing."

"We should rest or go through our covers again."

"We've done it a hundred times already," Eames protested. "Poor Ariadne is looking peaky. She needs sustenance or she'll faint."

Ariadne was startled by that. "But—"

Arthur relented slightly; both could tell by the way his shoulders lost some of their tension. "I suppose a dinner wouldn't be remiss," he hedged.

"My favorite pub, then," Eames suggested. "Buy your own lager, though."

The queue for the ATM wasn't very long for a change, and there weren't many other people in the pub that Eames suggested. "How did you manage to find this on a Saturday night?" Ariadne asked, amazed. "The entire neighborhood is packed."

"It's an out of the way establishment," Eames said with a grin. "Every time I'm in London, I make sure to stop over here. Not too trendy, doesn't cater to anyone in particular and no one seems to understand that it has the best fish and chips." He wagged a finger at Ariadne. "Tell me you've had some in your time here, young miss. It's all but required."

She laughed and nodded. "Of course."

"Good. That one," he said, addressing Arthur, "is entirely too staid for a night out. All work and no play, but you sometimes miss how people tick that way. In our line of work, it isn't just about what is said. Sometimes it's about the things unsaid, the subtleties that you observe about the way that people move, how they say things. We're looking for someone that knows the ins and outs of the information business, the way that we look for data straightaway. We're going to have to come at this sideways."

Arthur looked as though he bit into something sour as he chewed his food. "Eames..."

"No, no, you do things your way when you get there. That's fine. That's expected, but there aren't any two ways around it. The two of you will need to go in there and ferret out whatever clues you can. I'm taking the sideways route, however. I can think outside those neat little boxes they set us up in, so I'll see what should be there but isn't."

Ariadne looked between the two men, her food sitting heavily in her gut. "Eames," she began in an almost tremulous tone. "That's too dangerous..."

"The nature of the game, my darling." He gave them a careless shrug. "The things we do for crown and country that the ordinary folk will never know." After a moment, the somber mood seemed to shift. "So now we do what we can, we find this tosser and make our way home again, safe as houses. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Arthur replied firmly. His eyes were on Ariadne as he spoke, and her cheeks pinked in response. "We stick together, no matter what."

After dinner, the three returned to Eames' flat. They let Ariadne shower first, and Arthur's eyes didn't leave her for a moment. He seemed entranced by the flash of skin he saw when she darted from the shower to the bedroom to change, her hair wet and curling around her face and obscuring him from her view. "Oh, you have it bad, don't you?" Eames asked, eyebrow lofted at Arthur. "Just kiss her and get that over with already. It isn't as if your interest isn't reciprocated, you realize. Ariadne would gladly return your affections if you just got over yourself."

Arthur looked at Eames, almost angry. "What I do or don't do is none of your damn business."

Eames leaned forward and rested his hand on Arthur's arm in an overly familiar gesture. "On the contrary, Arthur. Our lives have been entwined for some time now, and as soon as we get on that plane in the morning, our very survival is dependent on what we all do or don't do." Arthur looked away uncomfortably, and Eames reached out to turn his face back to him. "Like it or not, Arthur, we are all interdependent out there. We're operating without sanction in any way, and you can't simply ignore what you don't wish to face."

Yanking himself backward, Arthur got up from the sofa and paced with agitated steps. "You can't just say these things, Eames."

Arthur's voice was ragged, but Eames wasn't content to simply let it go this time. "What things?" he asked, eyes half lidded and voice deceptively lazy.

Ariadne left the bedroom then, dressed in pajamas with the day's clothing in hand for the small washing machine in the kitchen. She looked between the two men, concern in her gaze. Arthur didn't see her, as his back was to the hallway. "You can't just imply we're together like that," he was telling Eames, voice still agitated. "It isn't like that."

"We can't trust anyone else out there, Arthur," Eames told him mildly. "If you're seeing that dependence as more emotional connectedness..." He let his voice trail off and he shrugged in a careless gesture. "It's all right to want more from us than you think you can have."

"No, it _isn't,"_ Arthur ground out, hands balling into fists at his sides. "That would just compromise us all, you fucking arrogant idiot. I can't let this blindside me. I won't let anything happen that could endanger her life while we're there. Even something happening to _you_ out there—" His voice broke off, and he took a few more jerky steps, running a hand through his immaculate hair in agitation. "You keep pushing," he told Eames, still not seeing Ariadne standing there with lips parted. "You push and push, never thinking there could be consequences, never thinking of the danger you could be putting us through, you bastard. We're not here to be your playthings!"

"I never said you were," Eames told him quietly. He dropped all pretense at being unaffected by Arthur's words and leaned forward in his seat to place his elbows on his knees. "But pushing us away won't help matters. Shutting us out won't keep us safe. All it will do is isolate you further, when that is the last thing you need."

Arthur turned from Eames and now saw Ariadne standing there in her pajamas, a matching suit in burgundy that made her seem even paler than she was. "Oh, God," he muttered, stricken.

"I won't allow you to be compromised," Ariadne told him clearly. She stepped forward, her laundry falling from her hands to the floor. She touched his chest gently. "You're safe with me. I can handle myself. I'm trained, and I can do this."

"I can't," Arthur told her in an agonized voice, pulling away from her. He strode to the bathroom with agitated steps, locking himself in.

Eames helped Ariadne pick up her laundry. Her hands were shaking, and she couldn't quite measure out the soap. Some of Eames' things were already in the machine, and they wouldn't start it until Arthur's contribution was ready. He laid his hands on her shoulders, feeling so large and clumsy next to her delicate frame. "He'll come around to the idea, I'm sure of it."

"And if he doesn't?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper as she stared into the washing machine as if it held all the answers.

His hands slid down her shoulders to caress her arms. He kissed her cheek gently, inhaling the soft scent of her beneath the soap and shampoo. "I'm used to being second best, if you don't mind it." Eames gave her a sad smile when she turned in his arms, a frown on her face. "I don't think of it as second best, of course. I'd say in some ways I'm better than that wanker." He placed his fingers on her lips so she wouldn't speak. "No promises, darling. No placating words, no denials, nothing. These things are what they are. If you choose to act on them, I'm here. Whether he ever gets his head out of his arse or not."

She closed a hand over his and gave him a gentle squeeze. "No promises other than to survive this mission," she agreed.

"That's my girl," Eames said approvingly. "Take the bed. I'll sleep on the plane. It's a long flight, and I have some last minute preparations still."

"Are you sure?" she asked in concern.

"Quite." He kissed her forehead tenderly. He cupped her face in his large hands, feeling as though he was towering over her. It was an odd sensation, one that made him feel strangely protective toward her. With Arthur, he tended to want to slap him upside the head for being so willfully obtuse. Eames allowed himself a gentle kiss against her lips that she responded to, her hands sliding down along the muscles of his chest. He could get used to her touch, to the distress she held for his own emotional upheaval. So few people cared about him that way, and he was tempted to tell her to stay in London to be safe. It would be an insult to her agency to do so, and he could never undermine her will that way.

"Sleep well, Ariadne. The game is on in the morning."

No one slept well that night.

***  
***


	3. It Can't Be Outfought

Traveling to Heathrow early in the morning was tense, and all three were very silent. They checked in for their flight under assumed names and didn't really speak to each other at the gate; Ariadne tried telling herself it was all part of the cover. Eames' character didn't know them, and there was no particular affection between Ariadne's or Arthur's characters. Part of her ached, though. They were tied together, the three of them, and it was more than this particular mission in Prague. Whatever happened there or if they had to go farther afield, the three of them were emotionally involved. Arthur might think it compromised their ability to be professional, but the pain in Ariadne's chest felt far more compromising than his kiss had.

Despite the cramped seat, Ariadne dozed for most of the flight to Prague. She was already Rachel Ainsworth for the flight; identification in her real name, Charity Gates and Heather Knox were also tucked away into her carryon luggage. Arthur was seated two rows ahead of her, and he was supposed to be David Sevcik for now. She didn't know the names of his other identities and Eames never bothered to tell her any of the names on the identification he was carrying. She supposed it was safer that way, but her worry burned at her gut.

Prague airport was about thirty minutes away from the city by car, and Eames pretended to commandeer the taxi that Ariadne and Arthur got into. He used an obnoxious and lowbrow accent, one that startled Ariadne after hearing his usual posher one for the week she had known him. It was a flawless transition, one that would have had her fooled if she had never met him before. "Oi, you lot sound like Yanks. Americans, that," he clarified at her blank look. She caught the significant flash of his eyes toward the taxi driver, who was facing straight ahead and gave no indication that he could understand English. She didn't think for a minute that he couldn't, and she could tell that Arthur wasn't fooled either. "Hope you don't mind me crashing in, sharing like. Hard to find a good ride in."

"Oh. Have you been here before?" she asked politely, looking faintly disturbed. If she shrank back toward Arthur by a fraction, it would be in keeping with the office assistant that had never been to Prague before but was there as a business transfer.

"Oh, I've been most places before," Eames said with a discomfiting grin. It amazed her to see how fully he could inhabit this other persona like a second skin, as if he had never been an MI6 agent at all. It was likely how he planned "to go in sideways," as he put it.

Arthur slid a hand along her back in silent support, and he was looking at Eames warily. She couldn't tell if that was his usual expression for Eames on a mission or if it was in keeping with his persona as David Sevcik. Either way, it was almost comforting to see something familiar in him. "Well, I'm sure you'll have a good time, then."

"Oh, I plan to," Eames replied, his words somehow conveying blatant lascivious intent toward Ariadne. He smirked when he saw Arthur slide a hand possessively over her waist. "Maybe you do, too," he added with a nod at the gesture.

The rest of the ride to the city center was spent in tense silence.

***

Arthur and Ariadne were staying at the Hotel Astra in Strašnice, one of the picturesque neighborhoods within Prague. They were in a double room, and the three star hotel wasn't very far from the Statistical Office. Each room of the hotel had its own bathroom, hair dryer, separate toilet, TV, telephone, radio and access to WIFI internet. Ariadne found it comforting that all hotels were pretty much the same, and she sank down onto the bed closest to the window. Arthur paced the length of the room with jerky steps; she couldn't help but wonder if he was upset that he hadn't been able to find two single rooms available. "What is it?" she asked finally.

His eyes flicked up toward the fire alarm in the room. It was a generic and plain room, so there were few other places to hide tracking or listening devices.

"I didn't sleep well on the plane," he said. "I think I'm just too keyed up."

"Well, why don't we just take a walk, then? It'll help us learn the neighborhood a little before we have to report in for our shifts."

He nodded, relief in his eyes that she stayed in character. "Good idea. I've got the room key."

They walked along the streets of Strašnice near the Astra Hotel. "I don't trust it there," Arthur told her without preamble when they were a few blocks away. "It isn't like the movies. There are no easy handheld devices to check or block signals. At least, nothing we could have gotten past customs. Since we're here without official sanction, I can't requisition equipment from Prague Station just to sweep the room."

"What about a physical check of the devices, then?"

"Would office staff think to do that?"

"Only if they were paranoid or had something to hide," Ariadne replied with a sigh.

"Exactly. We have to keep to our characterization in case we're being watched. Eames seemed to think the cabbie was suspicious looking, though he could have been just paranoid because of the mission we're on. Either way I have to be David and you have to be Rachel while we're here."

"Wouldn't it be strange for two strangers to share a room and conversation like we are?"

Arthur looked at her askance. "We're working for the same company and heading into the Statistical Office to help data entry. We aren't complete strangers at this point."

"Then you don't have to walk around me or hold yourself so aloof," Ariadne reasoned. "Even if you don't plan for us to be lovers, it doesn't mean you have to treat me like a stranger."

He stopped walking. "So what do you want to do?"

Ariadne sighed. He was standing so still, his expression so flat and masklike. "Behave as you did when we first met, Arthur. Not everything has to be a complete lie, you know. You were able to have a coherent conversation with me, and you weren't as distant as you are now."

"Things have changed," he said, shaking his head.

"Not that much," she challenged. "We've known each other only a few _days._ Yeah, I've caught you looking and you've caught me looking. Yeah, I've kissed you. But I'm not so blinded by hormones that I can't think about what I'm doing for this mission. I'm not so completely led around by the concept of sex that I won't do what needs to be done. That's insulting, Arthur," she added, poking him in the chest with one slim finger. "Get your head out of your ass and stop feeling sorry for yourself. So you think we can't sleep together. Fine. We still need to work together, and you acting this way hurts us more than just dealing with it."

Blinking in surprise, Arthur closed his hand around hers, trapping it against his chest. "You're right," he said after looking at her evenly for some time. "I'm sorry."

She gave him a slight smile, accepting his apology. "Just don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed. Yes, it had only been a few days, but he felt connected with her, as if he had known her as long as he had known Eames. Perhaps because it was a much less conflicted sort of relationship. There was less of a struggle with her than with the two men. She understood what he was about without the need to challenge him constantly. While Arthur might welcome that from time to time, the continual back and forth wore him out. He was tired of being on guard so much, of having to measure every syllable that fell from his lips around Eames. Was it really too much to simply say what he wanted without being judged? At least with Ariadne he could have that, and it was only his internal censor that he warred with.

He didn't move right away, and she didn't seem all that eager to force the issue either. She liked the proximity and the excuse of their touch. It was a different kind of back and forth, a different dance. Instead of words as her weapon, she used sheer physical presence, sidelong glances, half smiles and the knowledge that she had presented him with an open invitation that he was only too willing to accept. It wasn't a question of how. It was simply a question of _when._

Realizing that was rather freeing, actually. He didn't have to watch himself around her. She wouldn't use what he said against him, flinging his actions or words to wound the sense of self that he tried so hard to hide. She was there, waiting for the time to be right. It was so different from what he was used to that Arthur hadn't recognized it before.

Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her right there on the street. There were a few guffaws from a passerby, especially when he reached to grasp the back of her head with his other hand to keep her close. He could taste the salt of airline peanuts still on her tongue, could feel her soften under his touch.

"We'll figure out a way to make everything work," he promised when the kiss ended, meaning it on multiple levels.

By her brilliant smile, Arthur could tell she understood every meaning.

***

Eames sidled up to the bar, slight swagger in his step. It was a dingy, poorly lit place in the more industrial portion of Strašnice, closest to Žižkov in the third district of the city. Žižkov might have been more residential, but it was a more working class area rife with petty crime, car thefts and an underground drug trade. Strašnice was a much more quiet and sedate area than Žižkov, full of students, families and didn't have much hustle or bustle to it. The area didn't fit his current persona at all. The current patrons in the pub looked at him askance, as he had never been there before. The area was known as a hotspot for Cobol-led activity, though few field agents could ever track down which bars or businesses the family recruited from. Eames had deliberately picked this pub because it was north of the Černokostelecká tram loop and nearest the dilapidated factories and abandoned buildings that hadn't quite made it through the renovation budget. It was the most likely place to be picked up by the unsavory element, and he would never get close to Cobol or his men if he played it legitimately.

Sure enough, after his first drink two dark-haired men in drab clothes with bruised knuckles approached him at the bar. "You're new here," they said in accented English. They had heard his lower class accent when he ordered his drink, and were smart enough to respond in kind.

"Yeah. And?" he asked, all bluster in his tone.

"You're not the usual sort that comes 'round here," the taller one of the two men said. He had a gruff voice, as if he had smoked far too many unfiltered cigarettes in his thirty-plus years. He was missing two teeth in his upper jaw and one in his lower jaw.

"Why? 'Cause I've all my own teeth?" Eames asked, making sure his accent was on a little bit thicker. He grinned at the man's scowl and then finished off his glass. He nodded at the shorter of the two men. "Talk much there?"

"When there's summat worth sayin'," he said, and there was a definite trace of an Irish brogue to his English. Very interesting. Prague had quickly become an international city and a destination of choice, but Eames was very willing to bet that these two men hadn't come to the city on a work visa. He would put money down on these men being affiliated with Cobol somehow, though it was impossible to tell how far up the food chain they were.

"Fine, then," Eames replied with a shrug.

"I don't think you've realized what place you've walked into," the taller man said, and there was a flash of gunmetal at his waist when he deliberately moved his arm to open his jacket a little more. Eames wasn't overly impressed, and made sure his expression said so.

"I'm newish at the mo', but I've been here before, years and years ago. Hard to work solo back then. I figured I'd make a go at it again."

"Eh?" the taller one said, tilting his head slightly. "What kind of work?"

"The kind you don't talk about," Eames told him brightly. "The kind you leave town for if authority figures get too close."

The two men looked at each other. "Where you staying?" the taller one asked after a moment.

"Haven't booked a place yet," Eames told him honestly. "My things are in a bus locker." He shrugged at their incredulous stares. "I got off the plane a little while ago. Figured I had time before nightfall to find a spot."

"Then why are you _here_ and not in Praha 1?" the shorter asked with narrowed eyes.

"I hopped into a cab with some Yank couple. I just went where they were going, and they never even noticed that I didn't pay for the fare." He snickered and signaled for the bartender to get him another drink. "The bloke was too busy making sure I didn't make off with his girl."

"Business is better out there."

"Business can be found anywhere," Eames replied with a careless shrug. "Especially if you're not too fussy 'bout the business you do."

"Are you?"

"Not at all." Eames assessed the two men, and they returned his steely stare. "You got anything that needs doing?"

"I'll get back to you," the shorter man said, backing off and reaching for a cell phone. Eames shrugged and turned to the bartender arriving with his drink. The taller man didn't move, but Eames didn't look affected in the least. He waited and sipped at his drink as the shorter man spoke in broken German, using a hushed tone. Eames could make out that he was being discussed, as well as a botched job that needed to be redone. He could only hope it had to do with the US embassy bombings or the failed attempt to get into Prague Station.

By the time Eames finished his drink, the taller man had gotten tired of standing and sat beside him at the bar. The shorter of the two men finally returned, a pinched expression around his mouth. "So a man matching your description did get off a plane from London and ran into a taxi with a couple."

"Told you I did," Eames said with a nod.

"Our man says she didn't like what you had to say."

"Her man liked it even less," Eames replied, eyebrow lofted. "So?"

"Who'd you work for in London?"

"Myself, mostly. Last job I did was getting some supplies in and out of places, but I never got paid for it. There were bobbies all over the damn place, so I figured I might've been given up for a lesser sentence. It happens." He drummed his fingers on the counter. "Why? Got something for a man in need of a job?"

"Who was the bugger you tried running supplies for?"

"Franklin Dash," Eames replied, tossing out the name of one of Mark Cobol's known minor associates. He had fallen off the map in the weeks prior to the embassy bombing, so there was no way to confirm or deny Eames' story.

The shorter man texted the name to his superior, and Eames turned to the taller man. "Hey, since we're getting personal, you should buy me a drink."

The taller man snorted. "I don't even know your name, stranger."

Eames gave him a sharklike grin. "Corey Rhames. You?"

"Tom."

Eames eyed the shorter man. "So is he Dick or Harry?"

The man didn't get the joke and frowned at him. "No, he's Paddy."

Those were names he would have to get to Ariadne later, to see if they were known in Cobol's gang of thugs at all. Paddy did get a text in return, then slid money across the bar to the silent bartender. He tucked the money away and made sure he was busy cleaning already clean glasses on the other side of the bar.

Lifting his chin a notch, Eames stared down Tom and Paddy. "Well?"

"You'll do," Paddy told him. "As it happens, we've been a few men down and in need of some bodies willing to work."

"What'll I be doing, then?"

Paddy's expression matched Eames' earlier smile. "Care for wet works?"

"Don't mind a touch," Eames replied, standing and leaving enough money on the bar to cover his drinks. "I suppose we should get better acquainted."

***

It was fairly busy at the Statistical Office, and Ariadne was assigned to data entry from backlogged work. It was nominally data that the office needed, but it was also data that the CIA station would need. Her position was a temporary hire was in the gray area between the two locations, though she was informed during her orientation that she would only interact with the Statistical Office staff. Prague Station didn't officially exist there, after all. Arthur was assigned to a separate area of analysis, and she supposed that he was closer to the Prague Station data than she was. She noticed security guards standing closer to her than to other clerks. Just before her lunch break, she approached one. "Did I do something wrong here?" she asked. "No offense, but I'm not used to be watched by guards like this just for doing data entry."

At first she didn't think the guard was going to answer, but he finally looked at her. "It's not you, miss. There was trouble some weeks back, men who would do violence and harm."

Ariadne made sure she was appropriately alarmed. "Oh, dear. _Here?"_ The guard nodded crisply. "Like, hurting staff members or breaking into the building?"

"Both, miss." He paused for a moment, considering the alarm on her face. "The men tried, but did not harm anyone. They were stopped before they could."

"Oh." She looked at him with a more serious expression, nodding. "In that case, thank you for the protection."

The guard was surprised, but nodded in response to her appreciation. He didn't say anything as she left for lunch with the other clerks in that department, and remained at his post.

Which was right in front of a door that resembled a panel in the wall. There were no particular markings over it at all, and his uniform included a baton and automatic pistol.

That evening, she and Arthur took a stroll down the street looking for a good restaurant to have dinner. She told him about the panel and the armed guard in front of it. There was a similar panel in his part of the building, and he had memorized the layout of the building fairly quickly. "The spacing for the hallways and rooms doesn't add up correctly. There's a passage of some sort back there, some rooms, maybe. Prague Station doesn't need to look like that, so there's something else going on here."

"Do you think they're working with Cobol or some other group? Not the guards, obviously, but the heads of state."

"Not very likely," Arthur muttered as they stopped in front of a random restaurant. "I think I've figured out who the agents are, at least. So I can try to approach one tomorrow and see what they're willing to divulge about Cobol's man showing up."

"Eames needs to make contact with us, too."

"He won't unless he has something. His cover shouldn't know us at all. The cab ride was far too risky as it was."

Ariadne sighed as they entered the restaurant to be seated. The tedium of the day seemed to belie the inherent danger of their mission, and it was easy to forget why they were doing this. She wanted Eames to be safe, and he had put himself into an awkward and even more hazardous position than theirs. Sooner or later, their luck would have to run out.

Pushing all thought of that from her mind, she made sure to stay in character. Rachel and David would know about Prague Station's location, but would be used to working through handlers and not always knowing the outcome of their work. It was closest to what Ariadne usually did with Interpol, so she didn't have to change her usual reactions much. It was different from what Arthur was used to, and she could almost see him chafing to do more and be more directly involved with what was going on. She dropped a hand over his at one point during dinner, and his eyes swung around sharply to take her in. _"Rachel."_ His tone was more of a warning than the sound of a man infatuated with his coworker.

Disappointment flooded through her, but Ariadne told herself that he was playing his role and didn't necessarily disdain her company. She curled her fingers around his hand, brushing them against his palm. Arthur jerked at her touch, brown eyes slightly dilated. _Gotcha,_ she thought with a measure of triumph. "David," she said quietly, letting her touch speak for her. It was the only weapon she had against his strict work ethic, and she wasn't above using it against him. "It's just us here now. We're not even in the same part of the office, so there's no chance for gossip to go around." Boldly, Ariadne tightened her grip. "You said you'd find a way to make things work out."

"That was just yesterday," Arthur replied. There was something in his tone, less of a warning now and more of that same restrained longing she had heard that last night in London.

"Time flies," she murmured. "Things move quickly all the time." She looked down at their hands and then up toward his face. "I feel like we're on a deadline, don't you?"

Now there was certainly warning in his eyes, but he would never voice it aloud. She had been counting on that. "We have a job to do, and we have to make sure it gets done."

"Yes. But this _won't_ compromise that."

"You don't know that..."

"We're together now. As in, same room, same dinners, same office. Do you really think no one will make the connections between us?" Ariadne asked in a reasonable tone. "Do you really think that someone looking at us won't think we've already crossed that line?" She brought her other hand to join his at the table. "I don't want to be accused of something that isn't true," she said, lips quirking into a smile. "So I might as well be getting what they speculate I am."

Arthur clearly didn't appreciate that. "It's not an excuse, Rachel." He shook his head and withdrew his hand from both of hers. "What others think doesn't matter compared to what we're supposed to be doing here."

"David," she said, a slight sharpness to her tone. "I know what I'm doing and what I'm asking for. I know you do, too. And who else matters, if it comes to that." Arthur looked away at her words, and Ariadne sighed. "I'm not used to this," she admitted. He glanced back at her in concern. "The dance of words and looks and glances, of saying what I want and having it thrown back at me all the time. I don't... It's not like I ever dated much, I've always been so driven. I've never thought that it would wind up biting me in the ass, though."

"It's complicated," Arthur said, a mere exhalation of breath. "If it wasn't..."

"So pretend it isn't. Pretend this isn't complicated at all, that all the things you're concerned about aren't worth considering. Because they aren't, not right now, not in the least." She looked at him intently, aware that their conversation had slid to the personal and she wasn't talking as Rachel any longer. She didn't think he was talking as David now either.

"You can't pretend they don't exist."

"I'm willing to take my chances. Aren't you?" she asked, challenging him. Mindless data entry all day long had only let her mind wander to the mission and how Arthur had looked that morning in just his suit pants. She had wanted to run her hands over that clean skin, wanted to tell him to forget about the shirt and tie. But he had buttoned himself up tightly, and she had to wear her own dress suit and lock herself into the Rachel persona. Endless rounds of _what if_ had gone through her mind, some of it sensual, some of it worry about being caught without any backup or official sanction.

Arthur sighed, hands still firmly in his lap. "It's not that easy."

"But it could be. And if it was...?"

He looked up at her from his plate, eyes smoldering. "You already know what I would say."

Ariadne lofted an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it at some point today. Data entry is ridiculously boring and you could do it in your sleep."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. "Maybe."

"No maybes about it. You are far too smart for mere data entry, and you know it," she teased, pointing at him with her fork before finishing off her entrée. "So... What have you been thinking? Tell me."

"It's... not for public areas," Arthur told her finally, looking a little self conscious. Her cheeks pinked and he allowed himself a grin. "So yeah, I've been thinking about it. And trying not to act on it, for obvious reasons."

"And I'm saying it's perfectly okay to act on it."

He blotted his lips on a napkin slowly, aware of her eyes tracking every movement he made. It wasn't something he was used to; most people were off put by his reticence and professionalism or assumed that it meant he had no interest in relationships. Ariadne saw past that and kept pushing relentlessly. It was likely the same thing that drew Cobb's attention, and it would allow her to be an exceptional agent. In her own personal life, some might be overwhelmed by that dogged interest. Arthur felt that way at the moment, though it was also pretty flattering to know that he was desired that much. Eames didn't truly count, since he flirted with everyone and usually didn't mean half of what he said.

Arthur signaled for the check. "Well, let's see if our reality lives up to the fantasy, shall we?"

Her delighted grin made his heart stop for a second, making him question if this entire scenario was a dream or not. He couldn't recall the walk back to their hotel room, the way she pressed herself into his side and babbled about some kind of nonsense that Rachel was supposed to be interested in. Arthur replied, but it wasn't really important. He kept thinking _This is happening, this is really going to happen, this isn't how it usually works for me..._

And both stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Eames sitting in their locked hotel room, a signal jammer in his lap, a gun on the bed beside him and a florid bruise over his left eye.

"Hello, darlings," he said cheerily, as though his presence had been expected. "I have a world of information to tell you already. Shall we?"

Both Arthur and Ariadne managed to tamp down on the irritation they felt. Arthur nodded at the signal jammer, lips drawn into a tight line. "I guess that's got a wide enough range to block out the room?"

"As well as three on either side for good measure," Eames agreed. He noted that the tension didn't leave at that pronouncement, and slid his eyes toward Ariadne. "I'll even leave it here so the two of you can be sure no one listens in on the throes of passion."

Ariadne's cheeks flamed red and she made a big show of going to the dresser to take off her watch and earrings with careful, precise movements. Eames sighed and put the jammer down on the table between the two beds. Before he could get up or apologize, Ariadne turned. "Might as well start the debrief, then."

"Oh, Ariadne..." Eames began in a conciliatory tone. Arthur made an irritated sound, and he sighed. "Look. I joke. I didn't mean anything by it, and it's not as if I hadn't made jokes like that before, all right? It's how I even played off our entry into the city. The cabbie passed along information for pay, just as I suspected he might. I'd gone to the likeliest place to find Cobol's men, or at least to find my way into the organization." He tapped the bruise with a thick, callused finger. "Found them, needless to say. I'm not brought in close enough to know what he's planning, but he's not the one in charge. I've a list of the blokes I'm working with right now, but they're lower in Cobol's food chain and no one's talking all that openly right now. Cobol's bloody angry at failing, but whoever hired him doesn't give a flying fuck that he hadn't gotten into Prague Station. They're not going to try again, as far as I can tell."

Arthur frowned at him. "What?"

"I don't know for certain, but I gather this was something of a diversion."

"There's something there, though," Ariadne said. "Armed guards in front of funky panels that are actually doors doesn't add up to nothing."

"Perhaps, but that means Cobol's not involved any further. I asked about other cities, other places, trying to get a sense of Berlin or Krakow, but no bites yet. I can keep going on if you like, if you think there's something there." Eames looked between the two of them, no longer joking at their expense. He suddenly looked very serious, indeed. "He's not the only player in town, after all. I'm only hired on, not part of anything close. I can get in closer if you think Cobol's worth going after, or else I can try to ferret out who else might be involved instead."

"Why would we make that call?" Ariadne asked, confused.

"Because we're the ones in Prague Station," Arthur replied softly. "But if this was just a diversion, we would still need to find out _why_ it was a diversion. Why here? Why not somewhere else?"

"There were the other embassy hits. The Berlin or Kracow sites seemed off, but six embassies were attacked and then there was this Station," Ariadne pointed out. "Nothing in common, really. They were hit in different ways."

Arthur frowned. "Yeah. That's been bothering me for a while." He dug into the bag where Ariadne kept her laptop and booted it up. "There's something we're missing from this. I don't believe in coincidences, but it's awfully convenient for all of us to be here, find Cobol's men so easily and see that things aren't quite right."

"Unless you think that this isn't the target at all, and all the strangeness is meant to distract us from what the real goal is."

"I'm starting to wonder precisely that," Arthur said, frowning at the laptop screen.

"What are you looking for?" she asked in concern. She sat down on her bed beside Eames, frowning at Arthur's frown.

"I had gotten a message from Nash, and he had said the only thing stolen had been a list of operatives. I never double checked the actual list or the inventory of damaged items."

"Meaning that there might be something from London Station tied to this?" Eames asked, eyebrow raised. He looked over when Ariadne let out a sighing breath, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head fondly, which earned him a glare from Arthur.

"This is such a mess. And it's all going so fast. Just when I think I know what to expect, something else goes horribly wrong," Ariadne sighed.

Arthur's gaze softened when it landed on her, but he shifted it back to the screen in front of him before she could look up at him. "It's only been a day here," he murmured. "It will take time."

"What if we don't have it?" she asked softly.

"Then I suppose that we should stick to the plan at hand for the moment," Eames said, rubbing her arm gently. "Until we know more, I'll poke about Cobol's men to see if anything else pops up. You two can stick with Prague Station. We've only been here a day, as Arthur pointed out. I'm sure we'll find more out in the next few days."

"But this is the sort of thing that would require a long infiltration job," Ariadne protested. "We don't have that kind of time."

Arthur logged into various e-mail accounts and servers that he had access to. "There's nothing, and that can't be right." He looked up at the two of them, frown deepening. "Something's happening back in London."

"We're not here in an official capacity, remember?" Eames replied, watching in concern as Arthur put the laptop aside and stood up to leave. "You can't do anything about what's happening in London. You're an office clerk here, maybe with ties to the CIA, _but you're not CIA._ Don't do anything stupid, Arthur!"

The withering gaze he shot Eames made Ariadne recoil against him. "I'm in control, Eames. I'll figure out what's happening there."

Before they could say a word, Arthur left the hotel room.

"What just happened?" Ariadne asked, voice tremulous as she turned to look at Eames. "Why did he get so angry just then?"

"He doesn't like not knowing something. It almost causes him physical pain not to have all of the answers," Eames told her with a sigh, rubbing her back gently. It seemed to soothe her, just as he hoped it would. "And whatever secret CIA techniques he has, he'll do things on his own in an effort to protect us. I'm sure you realize that about him by now."

"Never mind that we're both capable agents and can help him," she said, a trace of bitterness in her tone.

Eames leaned in and kissed her softly, tenderness in every touch. "He'll be all right, poppet. You don't have to worry about him."

"But I do. And so do you."

"Because we know what hides out there in the dark." He touched her cheek gently and sighed when she sniffled. "Don't cry, darling Ariadne. He'll be all right."

She touched his livid bruise. "You aren't, are you? You're putting yourself in the line of fire."

"It's what I do."

Unspoken was the fact that it was what Arthur did for a living as well.

Eames traced the shape of her delicate cheekbones. "It will all be all right, Ariadne. I promise you that."

"You can't make that promise, Eames," she murmured, clasping her hand over his. She turned her head and pressed her lips against his calloused palm. "But thank you for trying."

He moved in and kissed her again. This time he didn't keep it superficial, teasing or as a gesture to reassure her. This time he poured his own emotion into it. She could respond or not, just as he had said before they left London.

She responded.

He mouthed her skin as clothes were shed, worshiped her body with his lips and fingers and tongue. She touched or kissed everything that she could, responding as if starving for affection, as if he was the only one that could fulfill her need. They both knew better; this was a moment's peace, drowning in pure sensation to stave off the discontented feelings that threatened to linger and make them feel hopeless.

Eames stayed long enough for her to fall asleep. At least, he thought she was asleep. Ariadne reached out and caught his wrist as he dressed, intending to quietly slip out of the hotel room. He turned toward her. Neither regretted this, that much was clear. Ariadne pulled him down for a last lingering kiss. "Take care of yourself, Eames," she told him, voice shaking with the force of her emotions. "Don't you dare die on me."

"Never my intention, darling," he murmured, meaning every syllable. Only then did she let go of him so he could slip out into the night as well.

***  
***


	4. Memories In Cold Decay

Arthur returned to the hotel room feeling disgruntled and out of sorts. He had managed to wander around Prague before ducking into sheltered places that he had learned about from fellow agents at London Station before he left. They were safe enough to go into other networks that he was aware of, and it appeared as though some of the agents from London hadn't been reassigned to different stations yet. He tried to contact some of them, and apparently no one was entirely sure where Nash had gone. His work hadn't been complete before Arthur left London, and now other agents were going over the servers to see if they had been hacked. Nash's flat in London had been tossed and the agent himself was nowhere to be found. Another agent had been found in his flat with his throat slit, so everyone was on high alert in London.

There was no way to clandestinely ask about Prague without giving his location away. Cobb didn't have any new information to give him from Interpol servers, though Arthur had only contacted him as a formality. Ariadne had already told him everything he needed to know about the different CIA stations and US embassies.

She was lightly dozing when he returned to their hotel room, the signal jammer still on beside her on the table. She had left a light on for him, and he sat down on the edge of her bed, head bowed in defeat and arms resting on his knees. Ariadne woke instantly and sat up in bed, reaching out to comfort him. "Arthur."

"I don't know what to do." He leaned into her touch and turned his face to look at her miserably. "I don't know..."

Ariadne pulled him into her arms and down into the bed next to her. It was a tight squeeze, but she was tiny next to him and wiggled around until he could fit relatively comfortably in the bed half on top of her. She threaded her fingers through his hair with one hand, and the other rested across his shoulders, fingers idly stroking him. His ear rested right above her heartbeat, and he sighed at the steady sound of it. "Just sleep. You're exhausted."

"I smell him on you," Arthur murmured. He closed his eyes, feeling utterly defeated. "You're better off with him, you know."

"No, I'm not," she replied gently. "We all need each other, Arthur. Sleep. You'll feel better in the morning." She kept stroking him with a steady rhythm, lulling him to sleep. With his body wrapped around hers, she fell asleep more easily than she had alone.

***

Arthur woke up with his face pressed into the curve of Ariadne's neck, her arms around him and one of his hands beneath her shirt. His legs were between hers, and he had an erection digging into her hip. She was still deeply asleep, lips parted slightly, breath moving harshly in and out, not quite a snore. He breathed her in, his own eyes closing so that he could simply feel her beneath him without distractions. She was soft and pliant, and he wanted to imagine waking up content like this every morning. The morning alarm would go off soon; they would have to get ready for work as Rachel and David, and it would be like sliding into an extra suit. Turning his head slightly, his lips pressed against her neck. He moved slowly until they were against her jawbone, and Ariadne made a soft sighing sound. She shifted slightly, and then moved her arms. One of her hands slid to his rear, and Arthur nearly tensed at the contact. 

She had been with Eames last night. He knew on some level that it was his own inaction and Eames' flirtatious nature that had led to that, and he wanted to feel jealous. He did, but not nearly as much as he thought he might. If anything, it felt like an inevitability. How long could he push her away until her attention turned elsewhere? The frustrating part was that he had every intention of sleeping with her the night before when they had returned. And then Eames had been there, the consummate cock block, and everything had gotten shot to hell.

That was rather the story of his life, actually.

Ariadne woke when the alarm went off. Arthur didn't bother to pretend that he had been asleep at the time. "Oh. You're awake." He helped her to a seated position, sorry that she wasn't wrapped around him any longer. Sitting helped to hide the remnants of his morning erection, though. "Do you feel any better now?" she asked, touching his arm in concern.

Arthur managed not to sigh or pull her close the way he wanted to. "A little. I'll feel better when this is all done, of course."

She leaned in and cupped his face with her hand. Her lips brushed against his, and he found himself looping an arm around her waist by instinct. Ariadne leaned further in, upsetting his balance so that they fell backward onto the bed. She was sprawled across his chest, and she had slept in nothing but a camisole and her underwear. She deepened the kiss, one arm propping her up so that the other could touch his chest and neck. "But last night," he managed to gasp out when she had to pull back to breathe.

"It didn't go the way we wanted it to," she murmured. She leaned down to kiss him again, but Arthur pushed her back so that her face simply hovered over his. "Arthur."

He flicked his gaze toward the jammer, which thankfully was still on. "Ariadne, you were with him last night."

"I'm sure if he had his way, it would've been the three of us tangled in bed together," Ariadne replied. "I don't know what it is I feel about him exactly, but I know what I feel about you. I know what I want." Just for good measure, she shifted her hips against his, rolling them against his erection. She could feel the stretch in her inner thighs; Eames was a large man and it had been a long time since she last had sex. It was a delicious reminder, and she rolled her hips again when Arthur groaned. "I love you, Arthur," she said, tone matter of fact. Their eyes were locked together, and there was no way he could doubt her sincerity. "Right now, tomorrow, next week, next month, whatever the future is going to bring. We could wait, if you want, but that's not going to change how I feel about you."

"You hardly know me," he protested. "It can't be love. It's just because we've been stuck together for the past week..."

Ariadne let out a frustrated sigh. "Why can't you believe me? It's not because of the mission, being forced to spend time together, being part of the cover story, none of that." She got up, intending to take the first shower. "I'll leave you alone, if that's what you really want, but it's not what I—"

Suddenly seized by the feeling that she would leave and he could never get this opportunity back, Arthur yanked her back down on top of him and kissed her thoroughly. His hands were tangled in her hair, and he kept on kissing her until he couldn't breathe any longer. She was panting when he gasped for air, then moved to her jaw and earlobe. Some part of Arthur thought that she would regret this, that she would leave at the first opportunity once they were back in London safe and sound. She was compromised now, so very emotionally compromised. And fuck it all, at this point so was he.

He pulled off her clothes and mouthed her sex. She gasped, fingers laced through his hair as her back arched off of the bed. Arthur devoured her with lips and tongue, until she was shuddering and nearly crying out in release. Only then did he move to sink down into her, moving his clothes out of the way. She pulled off his shirt and shoved his pants further down his legs so that she could feel his bare skin against hers. He moved with sure, deep strokes, using her gasps as a guide. It didn't take long for him to grit his teeth and collapse on top of her as he came, panting for breath that burned in his chest. Ariadne stroked his back, holding him close as she tried to get her own breathing under control.

"We'll have to go down for breakfast soon," Arthur said after a moment, regret in his tone.

She pressed a kiss against his cheek. "I'll set out my clothes today while you shower. If I go in with you, we're never getting out of this room."

Laughing, he pulled out and headed to the shower. He could berate himself later for this, as he was sure he would. Her earlier words came back to haunt him. She knew what she felt about him, and she was absolutely certain it was love. Arthur wanted to say that Ariadne was too young and too idealistic, that there was no way she could love him in such a short period of time. But he was ever the pessimist, always planning for the worst. And she was also likely right, that if he hadn't left the room when he did, Eames might have angled for the three of them in bed together. It wasn't a surprise to hear, and the only thing that truly surprised Arthur about the concept was that he wasn't opposed to it at all.

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned against the shower stall, struggling to get himself under control. He was a capable agent. He had done many things without regret that would give others pause, such as donning separate personae, killing or manipulating others to get what he needed. He had the respect of his fellow agents and he was trusted by his superiors.

Right now, however, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

How was he supposed to think about data entry and look for gaps and patterns in the entries now? All he could think of was the way Ariadne tasted on his tongue, the sound of her cries as she came and wonder what Eames would sound like if Arthur was buried inside of him. He wanted to focus on how the three of them could fit together like puzzle pieces in bed, the different permutations of limbs tangling together. Endless numbers and hidden secrets weren't nearly as tantalizing any longer.

This was _exactly_ what he had been afraid of, this level of compromise. Ariadne and Eames could be tortured or used against him. While they would understand if he couldn't bend or break on their behalf, Arthur wasn't sure if he could do it any longer. How could he remain steely and composed if he knew they were in trouble? How could he do his job the way he was supposed to now?

Arthur thought of saying something to her as soon as he got out of the shower. But she was stark naked as she was laying out her clothes for the day, and she had already prepared clothes for him as well. Her back was to him, and his mouth went dry as he watched her move around. There was an unconscious grace about her, and he knew very well the strength that lay within those muscles. Ariadne brightened when she turned and saw him standing there. "I hope it wasn't terribly presumptuous of me, but I figured I'd save you a little time," she said, gesturing toward the clothes on his bed. It was similar in style to what he had worn the day before. She gave him a mint-flavored kiss before heading into the shower, not waiting for a response.

He could do this, he told himself as he dressed. Other agents did this all the time. He was very capable of compartmentalizing his thoughts and emotions. He had been doing it for years. His fears of seeing her tortured to get to him might never come to pass.

Looking over her attire, he added a tasteful red scarf from her belongings to the ensemble. It would soften the harsher lines of the heavily structured suit, and he could catch a glimpse of the color if he passed by her department. It also felt like the attention to each others' clothes was almost a way of marking their territory, of subtly telling each other what they felt without the words that would damn them. He certainly approved of that.

All right, then. He would give this a try.

***

Eames managed not to laugh outright at the "difficult" job he was given to do, and the cough was interpreted as nerves. "Listen, I unnerstand if wet works ain't always your thing," Nameless Flunky #1 told Eames seriously. "But you did good for Paddy, and he knows where to find the work that needs doing."

"Work is work," Eames replied with a shrug. "Don't matter much one way or 'nother as long as I get paid for it, right?"

Nameless Flunky #2 came in from the edge of the alley. He was shorter and fatter than #1, with skin as dark as coal. He used that fact to blend into the shadows easily, only the whites of his eyes giving his position away. He liked scaring #1 with that, which Eames approved of, and it made Eames believe that he was the real brains of the operation. Apparently #1 was not aware of that fact, which left #2 free to pull whatever strings he liked. Eames was willing to bet that #2 worked with other syndicates besides Cobol's. "Oi. No song and dance, Trawler. Paddy sent over enough men, and this one has a job to do. He knows it."

Eames couldn't quite place #2's accent, but was willing to bet there was a trace of Eastern Europe in it. He didn't know enough about those countries to be able to pin it down exactly, but this fellow was likely born and initially raised somewhere hereabouts, then went off to England where his caregiver finished up the raising part on the streets. It was a mix of accents, but Eames would place it at somewhere in the south of the UK. The man was easily irritated by inefficiency, a trait that made Eames think fondly of Arthur. He nodded at #2 and shrugged again at #1. "When do we start?"

"Now," #2 said, passing him a gun wrapped in a black cloth. Eames slid it into his jacket pocket, not bothering to check the make and model. He was sure that any serial numbers would be conveniently filed off, making it impossible to trace. "We're off for our part of it."

"It" was a job for Mark Cobol. They would be breaking into one of the factories within the industrial park in the Hostivař territory and stealing the contents of its storage rooms for use in one of Cobol's factories. At this time of night it wasn't as heavily guarded, and the adjacent woodland was only inhabited by animals and homeless. Neither would really notice or care if they escaped through there. The particular factory was one that Cobol was hoping to get under his control from Jehlicka, a local man who controlled much of the underground in the industrial area. He was nominally affiliated with a German group, and Cobol was planning to take over Jehlicka's territory. Eames could read between the lines well enough, and the failure to break into the Statistical Office had set some of Cobol's underlings rumbling that he wasn't good enough to remain in control of the area. They were saying that either a different Cobol man or an entirely new chain of command would better serve them. Jehlicka was a logical target, then: his area of control was smaller but relatively rich, and his affiliates were too far away to truly do something to retaliate.

The job progressed far too easily for Eames' taste. He couldn't help but feel as though they were all being herded into a trap, and Jehlicka wasn't nearly as stupid or careless as Mark Cobol thought he was. The industrial center of Prague had its share of minor turf wars, and the Cobol family's reach really was centered in Western Europe. Mark Cobol was trying to push into Eastern Europe, but the German and Austrian groups were resisting him.

Just when Eames thought it was safe enough to relax his guard, he sensed an extra presence in his part of the factory. He had been ruthless and efficient in the first job that Paddy had used him for, mostly because he didn't much see the point in needless torture. The poor sod's death had been regrettable, but he needed to do it in order to earn Paddy's respect and trust. This particular guard at his feet had a family, and they would be mourning this loss in the morning. Eames hadn't drawn out this particular death either, catching him by surprise so that he was dead before he even hit the floor. He was silent, killing because it was more expedient in this particular case than because there was any joy in being Rhames.

He pressed farther back into the shadows. The other idiots with #1 and #2 were shuffling around, making noise as they depleted the storerooms. #1 was making even more noise as he directed them where to put the goods. Eames couldn't see #2, but he could hear the man giving quiet orders once the men were outside and loading their truck.

The presence Eames felt was someone else, then. And he was willing to bet it wasn't one of Cobol's men. Those tended to be loud and obvious. There was a reason why he hadn't succeeded in breaking into Eastern Europe, and it had a lot to do with his lack of subtlety.

The figure was slight, another shadow in the dark moving silently on the tips of toes. Eames would guess that the figure was a woman or a very young boy, since the movements were a bit too graceful for a common thug. He guessed that this was a lone figure, not associated with any particular group. The movements were too furtive, more like that of an assassin or spy than a common cartel operative. He could always surge forward, grasping the girl and trying to figure out what she was doing there. Without properly assessing what she had on hand, however, she could easily draw a weapon on him.

Another minute watching her and it was clear that she had no weapon other than a single knife in hand. She was keeping an eye on the main area, and obviously assumed that the guard's killer had moved on. She stilled when Eames had the unmarked pistol pressed into her back. _"Dobrý večer,"_ he murmured, lips stretching into a semblance of a smile. It wasn't a very good evening for the woman; up close, she was in her mid thirties and extremely careworn despite her lithe frame and limber movements. "I suppose you speak English?" he asked, still keeping to Rhames' accent.

"Many do," she replied, her own English heavily accented.

"Lovely woman like you," Eames said, voice heavy with sarcasm, "place like this... Gives a bloke ideas, it does." She wasn't frightened by that in the least, and seemed to expect the cold killer smile he flashed her. "What's your name, _miláčku?"_ he asked, using Czech for his usual endearment of darling.

She bristled at that. "You have no right!"

He nudged her with the gun. "Seems like I do, don't I?"

"Irena," she spit at him.

"Irena. Lovely," he said with a slight bow and a sarcastic twist of his lips. "Now what are you doing in the dark with a knife in hand?" he asked, taking it from her. She didn't protest, and he could tell by its weight that it was simply a cheap hunting knife that could be found in any department store. She moved like an assassin and wasn't afraid of guns but held paltry gear. This had to be an interesting story.

"None of your business."

He nudged her with the gun. "Wearisome and not true, _miláčku._ Do tell the truth before I have to get creative."

Irena's lips compressed into a thin line. She looked much older that way, and he could see that her hair was actually naturally blonde beneath the black dye. She had even done her eyebrows and coated her eyelashes with mascara. Her eyes were brown and she was of average height, dressed completely in black. She was used to playing to the shadows and had to be kicking herself for being caught. Eames didn't feel sorry for her at all; he was sure she would have had no compunctions about slitting his throat if their roles were reversed. "You work for Cobol," she said finally, syllables full of her anger. He could tell it was merely the amount she could no longer contain, and untapped amounts of anger lay beneath the surface. "You wouldn't know truth if it bit you in the arse," she snarled.

"Ah. Something personal, then?" he asked. "Not everyone on Cobol's payroll cares what he does or how." Her eyes flashed. "I'm only of recent employ," Eames said, nudging her back with the gun. "Why not tell me of this something personal, and we'll see if I forget whose payroll I'm on today, hm?"

 _"Jdi se vycpat!"_ she hissed. Eames only laughed and repeated himself, pressing the gun against her back. "His men are pigs."

"Not disagreeing, _miláčku,_ but not stating your case either."

"They stole my daughter for their games, then sold her to the Vory. They took her right out of my school."

"Your school?"

"Ballet."

He knew better than to laugh at that. "Perhaps more than just ballet, I'll wager. How long ago?"

"What does it matter?"

"Indulge me."

Her eyes flashed with utter rage, and he could feel the tension thrumming through her. "A month ago. Some American _zasranec_ came to Cobol with a job in Praha, stealing from the embassy or some nonsense. And Cobol, he thinks to entertain him with my daughter. So if I can cause trouble for him..."

"You know for certain what the job is?" Eames asked, excitement coiled low in the pit of his stomach. "Stealing from the embassy is big business."

"Eh. Embassy or something, I didn't hear. Some American facility, stealing information. So much for sale, and Americans, all they care for is money. They don't care for lives," she spit at him. "So much they break for dollars."

Eames found himself nodding. "Very true. Good thing I'm not American, eh?" he said with a smile. She glared at him. "You're very knowledgeable about this."

"My daughter goes missing, I make it my business to know why."

He continued to nod. "You should get a better knife next time," Eames told her, pulling the gun away from her back. He had the sense that she was telling the truth about this, and it dovetailed nicely with the timing of how things occurred in Prague.

"How do you know I won't use it on you?"

"I'm not the one that took your daughter and I'm only a hired hand. You want the higher ups." There was a reluctant nod in response. "Those men out there aren't it, by the way. You want _their_ bosses, and I don't go up that high."

Her lips thinned unhappily. "My information, it says that Cobol is interested in the Statistical Office. Those two in charge out there were involved in that location last week. They _should_ be that high."

"They couldn't kidnap a girl from someone that moves like you do," Eames told her honestly.

Irena grudgingly took the praise from him. "You're not stupid."

"No, hopefully not."

"So you live today."

"So do you," he returned brightly.

She scowled at him, but left the building as quietly as she came into it. Oh yes, ballet had its uses on occasion. Eames thinned his lips and looked back at Nameless Flunky #1 and #2. He could grab #1 more easily than #2, but #2 was the smarter one. He would be the one that most likely had information he could use, but he wouldn't give it up easily. It was going to be messy and it was going to have repercussions.

He bottled up the sigh he wanted to make; #2 would take some work getting to, especially without blowing his cover with Cobol's men. And #2 quite obviously would never be seen again once Eames was through with him.

He looked at the knife that he had taken from Irena. As the light glinted off its blade, his lips stretched into a smile, beginnings of a plan forming.

***

Documents in Nameless Flunky #2's pockets declared that his name was Thomas Vraney and he was in Prague on a work visa, sponsored by one of Mark Cobol's known affiliate companies. The paperwork was all legitimate, and Eames pocketed it carefully. He was in a basement storage room of an abandoned factory in Praha 3, and Vraney was strapped down to a table with industrial strength cord. The man was still unconscious, breathing sounding harsher now due to the broken nose. That had allowed Eames to transport him without the other flunkies knowing, and he had made sure to tell Nameless Flunky #1that #2 ordered him to collect the last few remaining tools in the warehouse. It had been a believable lie, and now Eames had a collection of instruments to use.

Eames double checked the cord, sure that the knots wouldn't give and the bolts that secured the table to the floor couldn't be moved. He wasn't about to wait around for Vraney to wake up, especially since Rhames was expected elsewhere soon. The stolen tools were set high on a shelf that was bolted to a wall, and Eames left the storage room. He padlocked the door shut, sure to use a lock that was scuffed and not too new looking.

He returned the following night; no one knew that Vraney was missing yet, and Paddy had no new assignments for Rhames. Wearing a ski mask with vapor rub worked into the nasal area, he opened the lock to the storage room and entered. The vapor rub kept the pungent odor of human waste from being too overwhelming. Vraney was awake and furious, shouting at him and promising torture if he wasn't released. The shouting didn't stop even when Eames pulled down the box of tools, but did when the hammer was lifted from the box.

"What the fuck?" Vraney asked, eyeing the hammer.

"This is how it's gonna go, boyo," Eames said with a cheerful tone. He was using an accent usually found in the rough part of Berlin, testing it out. He hadn't used it in a while, but seemed to be doing the trick. "You tell me what Cobol is up to, you die clean. You don't, well..." He hefted the hammer. "We'll see what we see, yes?"

"You're insane, you are. I ain't gonna tell you nothing. Cobol will find you and _end_ you, motherfucker. You can't muscle in on his territory."

Eames swung the hammer, striking the shin and making Vraney scream in pain. It was hard enough to hurt but not break bone yet, just to show he meant business. "First warning, boyo. Next won't be so light a tap."

"Go to hell, you goddamn arsehole. I won't tell you a bleeding thing."

Panic was just beneath his anger and pain, so Eames grinned behind the mask to increase the malevolent appearance. He tapped the hammer along the shin in the same place. "Oh, we'll have fun, won't we? I'll enjoy this, yes I will."

Eames worked over the entire shin bone with the hammer, Vraney screaming and cursing at him the entire time. He tried to say that he didn't know anything, this was all a mistake, but Eames had the gut sense that it was a complete lie. If it came down to a man under the first few hours of torture or his gut, Eames trusted his gut every time.

"I'll be back later," Eames said, tapping Vraney's face with the claw part of the hammer gently. He let the man drink some water, but otherwise left him strapped down. "We'll see if you like talking more later, eh?"

Vraney nearly sobbed, but managed to spit at Eames. "Fuck you."

"Oh, we'll see about that," Eames told him cheerfully as he left the room.

Once the door was safely padlocked again, Eames leaned against it heavily. He pulled off the mask and took in great gulps of air. When he felt like himself again, he pushed himself off of the door and took off. It was tempting to try to seek out Arthur or Ariadne at this point, just to see them and know there were some things still relatively pure in his life, but this wasn't the time for that. He had to stay sharp, had to remain Rhames and the unnamed torturer. Cobol was dirty, Vraney knew more than he was letting on and the clock was still ticking.

No other way out than to keep pushing through.

***  
***


	5. Transmissions Echoing Away

Ariadne was in the section of the Statistical Office processing the Czech census data, and it appeared as though there was very little covert CIA activity in the office. Or perhaps she wasn't devious enough to find it. Most of the clerical staff chatted about inconsequential things: music, TV, movies as they filtered through Prague, visiting the amazing architecture that gave the city its nickname of City of a Thousand Spires. She couldn't find any thread about the American Embassy, the bombing that took place at the Statistical Office nearly two weeks ago or even concern about terrorism along the gossip. Her role in this undercover operation was very likely a complete waste of time. The only bright spot to be had, as a matter of fact, was sharing a hotel room with Arthur.

The day before she had clearly dressed in a garter and stockings but no panties, and by the time they were back in their hotel room she had barely flipped on the signal jammer before he bent her over the bed and pulled up her skirt. Arthur mouthed the back of her neck and trailed his fingers over her bared skin to be sure she was ready before dropping his trousers to his ankles and sliding into her. It was fast and hard, grunts and moans without any words or terms of endearment. Arthur collapsed onto her when he finished, but after a moment withdrew and laid her carefully down onto the bed. He knelt between her spread legs and licked into her until she came, clutching at his hair and nearly screaming with release.

Thoughts of times like that made the endless rounds of data entry bearable. As far as spy missions went, this was deadly dull and not something she would have guessed was possible. All the spy movies made it seem thrilling and exciting, as if everything was dangerous, as if at any moment covers could come crashing down and people would die.

But then she caught sight of the guards with their semiautomatic pistols standing in front of wall panels that were actually doors. Somewhere in this building were secrets that people were willing to kill to keep.

Ariadne barely saw Arthur during the day, but he made sure to check in with her at lunch time, however briefly. He usually was off running errands within the building, and she could only assume that he was tracking whoever might know what Cobol was after in his attack. There were no arms caches in the building, of that she was certain. Despite its ridiculously high security, there was no evidence that there were illegal arms being stored. Being new, she used that as an opportunity to get "lost" in the building regularly, but there were no signs that storage areas were anything other than what they seemed to be. Only the odd panels with the armed guards were out of place, and she had a feeling only Arthur could get close to them.

For his part, Arthur managed to obtain the login information of several other workers at the Statistical Office, and he scoured their accounts and access codes for discrepancies. There didn't appear to be anything out of the ordinary that he could see, but he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong. He was missing something, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and that was making him edgy.

He and Ariadne went out in the evenings, going to different trendy bars, clubs or restaurants. It was the sort of thing that expats or newly transferred office workers would do, and he loved the feel of her swaying in his arms or smiling gently at him over coffee or drinks. If this had been an actual vacation instead of a job, Arthur knew he could shake the vague feeling of guilt that seemed to stick with him. This was a _job,_ he had to remind himself. That he was sleeping with his partner went against his personal code to never fuck up missions. Yet he couldn't bring himself to care when it was obvious that Ariadne was just as committed to finding out who had bombed the American embassies as he was. She hadn't known the missing or the dead, but she still was dedicated to tracking down the one responsible.

They hadn't seen Eames in over a week. Ariadne managed to cover up most of her worry, but time was running out if September 11 was the actual target date. It was only two weeks away, and multiple embassies and consulates were planning memorial ceremonies for the ten year anniversary of the terrorist attack. It would be too good an opportunity for other terrorists to take, even if they didn't hold to Al Qaeda's beliefs.

Arthur supposed that Eames' role bothered him more than he was willing to admit. The man had feelings for him and was risking his life for this mission. It might have been his ego, but Arthur believed Eames was doing this for his sake. It wasn't just for crown and country, but out of affection for Arthur. He had never allowed himself to seriously consider that before as anything but an annoyance, a means to needle him to keep boredom at bay. But Eames had been hurt the last time he and Ariadne had seen him, and he had knowingly and willingly taken up the dangerous position to get into Cobol's organization.

What if they hadn't seen him because he was dead?

He refused to think of that as a possibility. Eames couldn't be dead. The laughing, teasing and maddening man couldn't die, not over an unofficial mission like this. He did dangerous things all the damn time. This was just because he was in the middle of a dangerous part of his undercover role and couldn't get away.

"David," one of the other staffers called out to him. Arthur looked over from his cubicle, knowing that he hadn't been looking too dazed or out of it to warrant a reprimand. "Hey, cover my desk, will you? I'm expecting a call from upstairs."

It was not the literal upstairs that the staffer was worried about, and as far as Arthur was concerned, that meant he was close enough to being accepted at this station. He nodded and came over to the desk. As soon as the staffer was out of sight, he broke into the man's accounts and started looking in on his transactions. It was another dead end, and the phone rang just as he was backing out of the account. "Morescu's desk," Arthur replied when he picked up.

"Someone will be at the reception desk for you. Take the package up to 307."

"Understood," Arthur replied, not able to place the voice. He wasn't sure if Morescu would really want Arthur to take care of it for him or if this was a test. Either way, he got up and headed to the reception desk. Sure enough, there was a courier waiting with a small package in hand. "Good morning," he told the courier.

The courier flashed him a smile that was all menacing teeth. "It is for some," he replied, handing over the small package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and much heavier than it looked to be. Arthur would have thought it was the right size to contain file folders, but the weight of the package reminded him more of a pistol or a revolver. "You remember where to go?"

"I do."

 _"Hodně štěstí,"_ the courier replied, that same shark-like smile on his face. He backed away and left the building quickly, leaving Arthur to wonder why he would need luck.

In room 307, there was the department leader, Morescu, and a bound man with a burlap sack over his head. He had thick arms and shoulders beneath ragged, dirty clothing. For a moment, Arthur was afraid that it was Eames, but the way he held himself was all wrong. Even beaten, Eames would not be slumped in quite that way.

_"Blahopřeji,"_ the director told Arthur. Dressed impeccably, he was an older gentleman with iron gray hair peppered with white, deep lines on his face and dark brown eyes. He was tall and rail thin, commanding deep respect with his stiff posture. He held his hand out for the package, and Arthur strode to his side. 

___"Moje čeština je špatná,"_ Arthur said apologetically._ _

__"I know your Czech is bad," the director said in imperious tones. "I told you congratulations." He withdrew a letter opener from his jacket pocket and began to take apart the plain wrapping. "I did not realize what you were looking for right away. You and your lady friend. Your identities are close to flawless, and you keep to your roles so very well. I am impressed. I would have much appreciated your talents if you were one of mine." He discarded the wrapping onto the floor and worked open the flaps of the box. The only sound in the room was the bound man's harsh breathing through the sacking. "This man," the director said finally, indicating him, "is who you have been looking for, no?"_ _

__At the director's wave of his hand, Morescu pulled off the sacking. Bound and beaten, Mark Cobol glared back at them with a black eye, bloodied nose and split lip._ _

__"Director..."_ _

__"Ah," he interrupted Arthur, raising a hand. "Let us speak as men. I know you are not assigned to this station and you are not trying to join it. You don't compromise our efforts here. In fact, you have helped us in other efforts and looked for this man and his motives." His smile was razor sharp and not comforting in the slightest. "We are very much aware of the bootlegging and gun running he has participated in, and efforts to take over manufacturing. Trying to steal from this establishment was new, and he was very fortunate he wasn't captured in the attempt. He made the mistake of trying to return to finish the job, however. So we may help each other now, while he is still of some use."_ _

__Arthur felt sick as he looked at Cobol's beaten face. If Eames didn't contact them and didn't bring in Cobol, he had to be dead somewhere. It had been far too long since he last made contact._ _

__"I don't understand your meaning," Arthur replied, voice calm and face impassive._ _

__"He and his men thought they could enter my station and take what they liked," the director said, a thread of steel in his tone. "He is very much mistaken."_ _

__"But what do you want from _me?"__ _

__The director handed over the box. "We both want to know who hired him."_ _

__Arthur looked down into the box, and inside was a Glock 19. Once Arthur looked back up at the director, he smiled the slick, shark-like smile that made Arthur understand why he was in charge of Prague Station. "I..."_ _

__"He is the hired hand. You are unofficial. I have checked into you since you arrived, and only this morning decided that you could be trusted for this matter." If Arthur was the hand that pulled the trigger, Prague Station was not officially involved. They couldn't be blamed, but could still use the information that Arthur dragged out of Cobol. Not to mention that part of the larger Cobol empire would fall apart._ _

__"Director," Arthur began with a firm tone._ _

__"You get what I need, I forget that you are not in my employ and I will happily send along commendations for you and your friend in this matter." His expression was cold and impersonal, no malice or joy in this position. Arthur meant absolutely nothing to him, and the director's primary goal was in protecting his station._ _

__Implicit in that was the threat that the two of them could be silenced. They were unofficial, no backing whatsoever._ _

__"I make no promises," Arthur continued as if he had meant to agree all along. "I can't tell you what he doesn't know."_ _

__"Understood." The director nodded at him and then turned to leave the room. "Make sure you learn all that he does know."_ _

__Morescu followed the director, but remained just outside the door. Arthur picked up the Glock, feeling its comfortable weight in his hand. Really, the moment the Director alluded to Ariadne, there really wasn't much choice in the matter. He had to act._ _

__Cobol's eyes merely tracked him, resentment and rage in his gaze. His chin jutted out defiantly, refusing to give in to fear or pain. He didn't like being trussed up like a turkey, ready to be baked and basted. He would have preferred to die in a hail of bullets defending his territory from competitors or while taking over Jehlicka's business in Prague._ _

__"We're about to get to know each other very well," Arthur said, purpose in his tone. "You are going to tell me about your plans to get into US Embassies and this Statistical Office. I suggest you cooperate."_ _

__"Fuck you."_ _

__Arthur gave him a thin, tense smile, gripping the gun tight. He didn't know how the director had gotten his hands on Mark Cobol, but currently couldn't care less. The disaster that had been the US Embassy in London wasn't far from his mind, and he could still picture the wreckage and smell the blood and smoke._ _

__Cobol looked discomfited by Arthur's smile. Good. "We'll see what happens, won't we?" Arthur asked, raising his gun. "Tell me what I want to know!"_ _

__"You can't make me. This isn't under your jurisdiction. We're not in America."_ _

__"All that means is that I can use _other_ methods."_ _

__His eyes widened as the Glock crashed down across his shoulder, knocking him to the side and rocking his entire body in the chair. Arthur was stronger than he looked, and he had fury to strengthen the blow further. "You can't—"_ _

__Arthur didn't speak at first. He hit Cobol again. And then again._ _

__Pausing, Arthur looked at Cobol with dead eyes. He didn't realize it was the same look the director had given him just minutes before. "Well?"_ _

__Cobol spat at him, blood trickling down his temple. "I didn't roll for them, I won't for you."_ _

__"There are ways to get what I need from you, not to worry. If you're cooperative, you may even survive it."_ _

____

***

Ariadne had worried when she couldn't find Arthur over lunch. One of her new coworkers teased her a bit for losing her new boyfriend, and she had to laugh along with the woman. Ariadne stayed with her coworkers for lunch, who were a good natured lot and didn't seem to suspect that anything was seriously amiss. Ariadne kept an eye on the men and women she had seen Arthur with, but none of them appeared at lunchtime either.

Something was happening, and she couldn't help but feel nervous and almost sick in the pit of her stomach. There was a sense of wrongness and unease that only worsened throughout the afternoon. She was a little jumpy when one of the men in Arthur's division approached her. He had a flat, emotionless expression on his face, which only served to worry her more. Ariadne kept her expression placid; Rachel had no reason to question why David hadn't shown up at lunch as usual, as they only did data entry work. "You will need to return to your quarters on your own when your shift is complete," he told her. His name tag was visible, and she could clearly read Morescu and the division he was part of. Ariadne dimly recognized his facial features, and nodded at him.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, more curiosity than concern in her tone.

"David will be working late on a project," Morescu told her, though she didn't like the way his lips twisted around the name David.

 _He knows,_ she thought suddenly, with absolute certainty in her gut despite the fact that nothing Morescu said could indicate that he did know they weren't who they said they were. But the first thing Cobb had told her before leaving to meet Arthur and Eames in the first place was _Always trust your instincts. They exist for a reason._

"Oh. Any estimate on how long it might take? We usually get dinner together after work."

Morescu flashed an apologetic smile that was anything but. "He may not make it, depending on how the kinks get worked out."

"Can you tell David to text me when he knows for certain? If he can't make it for dinner, I could probably join Marta and the girls."

"I'll pass the message along."

"Thanks," she murmured, but he was already turning away. Ariadne didn't miss the outline of a gun at the small of his back, filing it away for later. All she had at her desk that could possibly be dangerous was a stapler and letter opener. She didn't trust her chances against a gun with those, and Morescu wasn't likely the kind that would easily respond to threats.

She did receive a quick text from Arthur's phone as she left the building – _Too busy to leave, eat without me._ – so Ariadne took up Marta on the offer for dinner and drinks after work together. "It's good for you to spend time with others," Marta was telling her. "Pinning all your time on one man, it's no good. That leaves you with no one else when he does something stupid or you just want to talk about him."

Another of the office women laughed. "Yes, please, do talk about him. He must be wonderful once out of the stuffy suit."

Ariadne managed not to sigh, and made sure to giggle along with them. She had to stay in character as Rachel, and Rachel wouldn't worry about David staying behind to work on a project in the Statistical Office. They were all processing census data or election demographics data, nothing dangerous. David choosing to complete a project rather than have dinner with his new girlfriend was a pity, but something that would allow her to dish with her new friends about the burgeoning relationship. She could gossip about movie stars and singers, chat about the latest club opening up in Stare Mesto, or one of the trendy restaurants in Vinohrady or Zizkov. They could all plan a visit to spend time together, a real girls' night out. It was perfectly ordinary, just the thing that Rachel would want to do without David. He was possibly making his own friends as well. This wasn't something to worry about.

But she did worry, because they weren't Rachel and David, and Eames hadn't contacted them at all. September 11 was rapidly approaching, they had no idea who hired Cobol, the embassy bombing in London still wasn't explained and the other failed bombings in Europe were being glossed over and forgotten. Ariadne knew they were all missing the big picture somehow, but it didn't make sense. What were they missing?

"Ah, you know men," one of the office women mentioned over her dinner later. "It all comes down to sex or money. Doesn't matter how they get it, who they trample that gets in their way. It always is the same thing, time and again."

Ariadne blinked and refocused on the conversation. Willing her phone to ring or chirp with a text wasn't going to make it happen. "Some aren't like that..."

"The first blush of romance. How lovely and exciting for you. I don't know your David well, and I wish you the best. I've had my runs of assholes that are selfish bastards after getting to know them better. Once you're not innocent any longer, or they can't run over you to get what they want, they're gone."

Marta hurried to fill in the details, and the talk moved in other directions before the dinner bill was settled and they went out for drinks. Ariadne kept hoping for some contact from Arthur, or maybe seeing Eames skulking about in the alleys, but neither happened.

They were silent and she was on her own in a city she didn't know well without any backing from Interpol. They didn't have CIA or MI6 resources. Anything could happen.

She wasn't in her hotel room long that night before Arthur stumbled inside, looking worse for wear. His knuckles were scraped raw, there was dried blood on his cuffs, shirtfront and pant leg, though most of it was covered up by his suit jacket or easily missed in the dark. He had a haggard look about him, as if he would rather sleep a thousand years than do anything else. Ariadne couldn't help the startled yelp that came from her lips. She checked that the signal jammer was on before approaching him and gingerly touching his chest. "What happened?"

"Mark Cobol is dead. But he wound up telling me everything he knew before he died. It was the only way he could earn a merciful death."

Arthur's tone was flat, eyes hollow and empty. She thought of the look that came over his face when they first came to Prague, when he had searched for any CIA hideouts to find information. It was the expression of a driven agent that didn't care what rules had to be broken as long as the job got done, no matter who was hurt in the process.

It broke Ariadne's heart a little to see it again.

"Tell me everything."

His words were clipped, precise, almost automatic as he undressed and put his clothing into a pile on the floor. They would not be salvageable, not at this time. The blood was too dried into the fabric, and nothing short of a long soak could possibly work it out, but that would ruin the fabric of the suit itself. Arthur wanted to burn them, besides.

He felt like a failure for being identified so easily, for falling into the Director's trap, for ruthlessly taking apart Cobol once given the opportunity. The pistol whipping had only been the start of it; Glocks were hardy weapons and Arthur's favorite, so he knew how to use and abuse the pistol without it going off or being damaged. He also made use of his own fists after carefully taking off the suit jacket so it wouldn't be ruined, as well as his feet, his shoes, the chair, the desk, the pens in his jacket pocket, the picture frame from a wall hanging as well as the shattered glass that had been protecting the print. Cobol might not have intended to turn over any intelligence, but Arthur hadn't intended to walk away empty handed. He had his life and Ariadne's hanging in the balance, and there was no question that he would never allow harm to come to her.

She wordlessly wrapped her arms around him when he was in nothing more than his underwear, burying her face against his chest. She murmured something that sounded like _I love you_ that he couldn't quite hear over the rushing sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Arthur was too busy thinking _I couldn't lose you_ and _What if they held you hostage?_ and _What if I hadn't been clever enough to get what they wanted?_

Cobol had only been the local trigger man, and had been hired on in London. He had met his employer in Soho, who had been laughing all the while about being so close to Mayfair. _They can't even guess, the bloke told me,_ Cobol had parroted, pleading in his eyes. The bones in both hands had been ground nearly to powder, and the pain had been intense. _Let me die, I beg you. Just fucking let me die, I don't know anything else. He wanted to put one over on all of you, didn't care that I got nothing from this place. He already got everything he wanted, didn't need anything here._

A bullet between the eyes had silenced his screams effectively, and Morescu only entered the room once it had been silent for five minutes. "Our thanks," he had told Arthur. "You may leave now, with our blessing."

"If anything had happened," Arthur found himself choking out suddenly. "If they got to you..."

"I'm tougher than I look," she promised him, kissing his chest. Her lips hovered over his heart. "I was more worried for _you."_

Her clothes disappeared in a hurry after their mouths met. They fell on top of the bed and Arthur let his hands roam everywhere, just to confirm that she was all right. Ariadne had the same need, had to feel that his limbs were intact and that all of his distress was mental. She had to know for certain that none of the blood on the suit had been his.

She arched into his touch and hungrily devoured his mouth, licking into it to taste him. She was already wet and aching for him, desperate to feel him inside her. _We're alive, we're alive,_ she thought dizzily. Her hands ran over his limbs, encouraging him to touch her. Now if only they could hear from Eames, she would feel complete.

Arthur's touch was reverent, as if he wanted to confirm the memory of her skin beneath his fingertips, as if he couldn't believe his good luck that things _haven't_ fallen apart on him yet. Some dim part of him was sure that his luck would run out and horrible changes were lying in wait for him. But Ariadne was as self sufficient as she seemed to be, she let him do what was necessary for the mission and she was constantly on the alert for clues. Their relationship wasn't distracting her in the slightest, just as she promised it wouldn't, and someone like that in his life was rare. He kissed her just as desperately as she kissed him, and gave a soft sigh of pleasure as he sank into her waiting body. _I love you,_ he wanted to say, but was still almost afraid to utter the words aloud.

Ariadne wasn't. "I love you," she mouthed into his skin, pulling him even deeper. "I love you," she repeated, running her hands down his back. "If I lost you..."

"Never," he told her as he moved to kiss her lips. He moved steadily over her, feeling her clench around him. "I had to come back to you. I can't leave you."

The door to their room opened a few minutes later, when Ariadne was panting and close to orgasm, Arthur managing just barely to keep himself from letting go. Eames quickly locked the door behind him, but he stopped short once he realized what he was seeing. "Oh," he murmured, eying them. He clearly was torn between desire and disappointment, not sure if he should simply turn around and leave, pretending he didn't see them.

But Ariadne moved one arm from Arthur's back and reached for him. "Eames," she gasped, head thrown back. "Come here."

Arthur's rhythm stuttered at her words, and he picked his head up from her throat to look at Eames incredulously. "What the fuck?"

Eames tentatively grasped Ariadne's hand. They could clearly see the various patterns of bruising along his arms, the harsh scrapes across his knuckles and the haunted expression on his face. "I had to be sure I wasn't leading anyone to you," he murmured, kneeling down beside the bed. He still had Ariadne's hand caught in his, and he tightened his grip. "I can leave..."

"Don't you dare," Ariadne admonished him. She turned to Arthur and urged him to move with her other hand. "Keep going," she whispered roughly. "I'm still so close."

Feeling awkward, Arthur looked uncertainly from Ariadne to Eames. He started to withdraw from her, and Ariadne locked her legs around his waist. "But..."

"We can't lose him either, Arthur," she said, a thread of desperation in her tone. "And it's us, just us, the three of us all together," she continued, tilting her hips and squeezing her inner muscles as further enticement. "Arthur..."

He shut his eyes and nearly shuddered at the sensation. "Ariadne," he murmured, before seizing her mouth in a possessive kiss. Eames let go of Ariadne's hand to slide his hand down Arthur's spine, nothing more than a gentle caress. Arthur shivered beneath his palm, breaking his kiss to breathe. Eames took the opportunity to lean down and kiss her himself. Ariadne had her legs around Arthur, using her heels to try to force him to move. One hand was sliding down Arthur's neck and her other was bent and curling around Eames. She was the catalyst here. Without her, Arthur would never have even thought a relationship could be possible with Eames.

He came after a handful of strokes, too far gone to be able to stop himself any longer. Eames slid his hand lower, along the small of his back before kneading his ass. He let out an almost indignant squawk, lifting himself up on one elbow to say something scathing. Eames took the opportunity to kiss him full on the mouth, tongue sliding between his parted lips. Ariadne shifted her hands, stroking each of them, her breath catching in her throat.

Eames shifted his position so that he could still touch Arthur, but his other hand moved along Ariadne's stomach, then down between her legs to bring her off. He was hard and aching now, sure that this would be the one chance for something like this to happen, then it would disappear as if it was all a dream.

Ariadne made a soft, almost catlike cry as she arched and came, clenching around Arthur enough to make him hiss. He pulled out and rolled off of Ariadne to go clean up, and Eames let his head fall to her chest. He kissed and licked a nipple as she ran her fingers through his hair tenderly, then she tugged him up toward the bed as he sucked gently on her, meaning to have him join her on the bed. Eames did so as Arthur returned from the bathroom, watching them with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression. Ariadne reached out for Arthur with one hand, just as she had reached out for Eames earlier. Still mostly clothed, Eames managed to sink down into her body and reach out for Arthur as well. "C'mere," he urged Arthur. "You belong here, too."

There was a reluctance in Arthur, and Eames could almost imagine him thinking _I can't do this_ or _This breaks all the rules I set for us here._ But if he was in bed with Ariadne and whispering endearments into her skin, he had already broken his usual rules. What was one more of them?

Arthur let his fingers run through Eames' hair, tips brushing across his scalp. There was a ragged scrape along the base of Eames' skull, but Arthur's touch didn't sting at all. He anticipated more than this in the near future, and suddenly Eames wanted more than Ariadne's lithe body bucking beneath his. He wanted both of them fiercely, as intensely as he had ever wanted anything in his entire life. Curling an arm around Arthur's waist, Eames pulled until the other man was closer. He buried his face against Arthur's stomach, pressing wet kisses everywhere and inhaling the scent of sex and Arthur. He snapped his hips harder against Ariadne, making her cry out, and she grasped Arthur's hip hard in one hand. Her other caught Eames' shoulder in a punishing grip as her entire body tensed. "Come on," Eames murmured against Arthur's hipbone. "Come, darling, come for us, let us see you..."

Ariadne let go, crying out and then falling limply against the bed. Even more startling, Arthur was pliant enough for Eames to pull down beside her, their mouths meeting in a kiss Eames would have bet a month ago would never happen.

No one said a word for the longest time. Arthur was the first to break the silence, in his usual brusque fashion. "Took you long enough."

Eames let out a huff of laughter. "I was in fairly deep, couldn't get out to let you know what was going on. I had to see it through."

"And did you?" Ariadne asked, cupping his cheek with one of her small hands.

His smile was an edged, sharp thing. It was not pleasant or friendly, and rather mirrored the nightmare grins on the monsters he had been hunting not that long ago. "Oh, yes."

Arthur seemed almost uncomfortable, and Eames couldn't tell if it was the situation they were caught in, the mission not being anything they had expected or that the three of them were tangled in their emotional ties. He pulled Arthur in for another kiss and had to smile when Ariadne shifted position so that she could kiss the spot where their lips met. It was an amusing and awkward dance of noses and foreheads, just the thing to break the inevitable gloomy thoughts that Arthur had to be thinking.

In fits and starts punctuated by Ariadne pulling off bits of Eames' clothing, events tumbled out and eventually were pieced together in a linear format. Arthur was able to add more to his tale, bits that he had gotten from Cobol or could intuit from stray data he had hacked from the Statistical Office computer banks.

An unnamed individual hired Mark Cobol and several others to hit sensitive targets in major cities. Getting actual information was a bonus but not required. Wanting to move beyond bootlegging, drugs and the occasional wet works job, Cobol took it as an affront to his growing status that he wasn't actually able to get anything out of the Statistical Office. He wanted to get inside the CIA the same way another operative was able to get inside London Station, the way that the Krakow embassy had been blown apart. The other cities sustained damage, but only London and Krakow seemed to have been compromised. Some of Cobol's operatives in the larger network were involved in the Krakow scene, and they confirmed that their men had been the ones to demolish the embassy. Nothing of value had been taken. The goal there had been simply terror and destruction, which they had accomplished in spades.

No one had stolen anything from the embassies or Stations, but Nash had told Arthur that there were missing documents from London Station. Arthur couldn't find Nash now, and no one else he had managed to contact could find him. Eames had more than done his duty to dig into the rest of Cobol's European network, and Arthur could read between the lines. There were many missing men that might someday turn up as a jumble of torn body parts, distant forensics teams having to put them back together to identify them and add more data to the red file documents that Interpol had. Ariadne pressed a kiss to the corner of Eames' mouth, and Arthur didn't doubt for a moment that she knew as well as he did the things that Eames had to do in order to get the information that he had. Eames hid his abhorrence better, that was all.

"We're going back to London, then," Ariadne guessed, voice quiet in the stillness that followed.

Eames didn't answer, but Arthur sighed. That was more than answer enough.

It was time to leave the city of a thousand spires behind.

***  
***


	6. God Save Us Everyone

It felt almost strange to be back in London. Marta and the other office girls had insisted on having a going away lunch for Rachel and David, full of sly smiles and winks, laughingly advising them to pick one place to settle down in rather than allowing themselves to be shipped all over the world. "Office work is office work," Marta had said with a dismissive wave. "You don't like your company, find another. Find a place you both love and live there. Planes and hotels are nice once in a while, but you need a _home."_

She was right, of course. Marta just didn't know that their home was London.

Just shy of September 11, Arthur was feeling more and more antsy. Something had to be happening. There had to be something he was missing. Everything was pointing to London, to someone involved with London Station. Why else would Mark Cobol's mysterious employer be so tickled to hire him on while sitting in Soho? It was someone from Mayfair, someone who knew far too much about London Station and some of the inner workings of the CIA.

All of Ariadne's searches of Interpol data were coming up clean. There was no chatter in any known terrorist cell about an attack on the US Embassy in any country. Eames checked all of his legitimate and underhanded sources upon his return, but they came up empty as well. Whoever planned this made sure that no one else was involved.

"Whoever it is would want to be close," Ariadne said, stretching. The three of them were in Eames' flat again, using the washing machine in his kitchen rather than separating. Whatever fear she had of Arthur balking turned out to be unfounded. He was sitting next to her on Eames' couch in nothing but his underwear and socks, an arm around her shoulders. Eames sat on his armchair kitty corner to Ariadne, still close enough to reach out and run his fingers along her arm. None of them had mentioned sleeping arrangements yet. They had wound up pushing together the two beds in the hotel room in Prague, sleeping lengthwise across them to be sure they didn't fall into the gap that remained. It might have been somewhat insulting, but both men seemed to be in agreement that Ariadne should sleep farthest from the door. They would then act as barriers to whatever horror came bursting through to get them.

"I would assume the bloke would want to see his handiwork," Eames agreed. "Someone like that, he'd fancy himself a master architect. He'd lay down the foundations of his plan, construct something elaborate, then sit back and watch everyone move through it.

"You keep saying 'he,'" Ariadne scoffed, swatting his hand playfully. "This architect could be a 'she,' you know. Women can be just as brilliant and underhanded and evil, and no one would ever expect it of them. _I_ could be your architect for all you know."

"You're an architect," Arthur said, sliding his hand along her bare thigh, "but you don't construct palaces of death and destruction. If anything, you'd build something to contain it."

"Very poetic," Eames remarked. He tapped his full lips with a finger. "Someone close, who wants to watch the chaos unfold. I assume 'he,' my darling girl," Eames told Ariadne with a slight smirk, "because Mark Cobol spoke to an unassuming, slim man with a squirrelly attitude. I assume it's the same fellow, because to orchestrate something on this scale takes a fair amount of ego. He'd want to see it through."

"So, local to Mayfair and thereabouts," Ariadne said when he fell silent. "But where?"

"Not exactly an easy task. There is still a lot of residential and commercial property in Mayfair," Arthur said, crisp edges to his voice. When it came to information retrieval, he was the best. His mind was practically a computer.

"Somewhere convenient, where no one looks, with lots of hidden nooks and crannies..." Ariadne murmured, thinking aloud. After a moment she threw her leg over Arthur's and let her hand fall on top of his other thigh.

Eames nudged her calf with his toes, distracted by the sight of the two of them casually touching each other. He had high hopes of it leading to fondling and kissing, then perhaps stripping off their underwear and retiring to his bedroom. "Might as well be talking about the Tube," he muttered, shaking his head. At her questioning look, he shrugged. "Well, there are plenty of disused sections of the Tube, from access tunnels, old passageways and even entire stations that simply aren't used anymore. The system is over a hundred years old, after all. Parts were even used as shelters in the Second World War." He laughed a little. "Down Street in Mayfair was even used by Churchill and part of his war cabinet, and the deep level shelters are primarily storage units now."

Arthur blinked and sat up abruptly. "Those are close and no one is monitoring them, right?"

"Those things are dusty, full of soot and hardly where you'd plan to put your evil lair," Eames scoffed, shaking his head. "And besides, if you're talking about Down Street, it's not very secret at all. Everyone knows it's there, and there are tours, besides. The spiral stairs there are used as emergency exits in case the tunnels are blocked."

"So no one would pay attention to a single squirrelly man using it as a base of operations, would they?" Arthur ventured.

"By now, he'd have cleared out."

"Not if he likes the idea of seeing his handiwork. He'd want to see the CIA scramble to see what was going on. Down Street sounds perfect."

Eames rolled his eyes but didn't question it. "So what do you want to do? Just take a stroll over to Down Street in the morning?"

"Why not?" Arthur asked.

"Why not he says," Eames muttered, shaking his head. "Well, then. Put on your best walking shoes in the morning, my darlings. I'll get you out and about, then down in the Tube."

"That sounds ridiculously dirty," Ariadne commented with a smile.

He couldn't help but grin at her in reply. "All good things can," he told her sagely. "Shall I show the both of you just how dirty I can sound?"

Ariadne laughed and tugged Arthur after her. "Let's see, shall we?"

***

Dressed in their oldest clothes, Eames led Ariadne and Arthur to meet with his friend Yusuf. He had once worked for the London Underground, but had left to work his engineering skills elsewhere. He had a formidable memory that rivaled Arthur's, and he had an extensive map of the Underground and all of its blind alleys, tunnels, bricked over areas, converted storage areas as well as what they originally should have been.

Yusuf was tall, round and had curly dark hair atop his head. Grinning at them, he waved them over to where he was standing at the old Down Street station. It was impossible to miss the ox blood brick façade that he was standing in front of. He was in comfortable overalls and goggles that fit over his glasses. Of some concern was the gas mask that hung around his neck. He laughed uproariously at their expressions. "Oi, you lot. I've got to make it look like we've reason to go mucking about down below, yeah? Not to worry, I've got enough for you three," he added, shaking the bag he carried that they hadn't noticed.

They put on the gas masks as he retrieved a key he was not technically supposed to possess. "You three are with me. Just act like you belong, and it will all be all right. Unless you do not wish to see?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face as he paused.

"Oh, just get on with it," Arthur snapped a little peevishly.

As soon as the door was opened, there was a blast of air from down below. They moved down to the platform level, then down a narrow flight of steps. Its landing opened to the original spiral staircase that had been built into the tube station, the original maroon and cream tiles still evident in the walls around the spiral stair. The entire area was reinforced from its days of being used in World War II, and there was a hidden door. Yusuf opened it and shone a torch he retrieved from his bag into the area. "Still empty, as it should be," he declared before shutting the door and moving on.

"What else do you have in that magic bag of yours?" Ariadne asked.

"Oh, I believe in being prepared, young miss. You never know what you'll find down here, and if my man Eames is to be believed, violence might be on the menu."

"It might be," Arthur hedged. "Is that a problem?"

Yusuf snorted. "Eames ever tell you how we met?"

"No," Arthur replied, looking at him wonderingly. "We didn't even know about you until today."

"Just like him, then, keeping secrets close, and the very important ones even closer." Yusuf laughed. "It's a tale, perhaps for a different day, then." He tapped the spiral stair. "Here, now. Let's go on further. We've only really started."

The spiral staircase was brand new; Down Street might not have been active as a tube station any longer, but it was still very useful as an emergency access point for the Piccadilly line. Yusuf didn't think this portion of the old station would be worth much to the threesome behind him, but it was worth looking into every nook and cranny that he knew of. Otherwise, what was the point in maintaining access and the accuracy of his memory?

They stopped two thirds of the way down, and Yusuf turned to give them a Cheshire cat grin. "I do believe this is where the fun begins."

There was a passageway quite unlike those present in other tube stations, as well as a modern fire safety door that was quite obviously locked. Yusuf knelt in front of it and tried one of the keys on his ring, but soon cursed under his breath. "Bugger it all, they changed the lock _again."_ He put away his impressive-looking key ring and removed a lock pick set from his bag and set to work inspecting the lock. "Too new, not like the last time," he muttered to himself darkly, frowning at it.

"Wait... Then perhaps it wasn't done by Underground staff," Ariadne said. As Yusuf began selecting the proper picks to try to open the lock, she paused and considered the ease at which he was able to do this. "You are _very_ lucky we're not here to steal anything, Yusuf," she began sternly.

"Yes, yes, or else there's three years' penalty," he intoned, not even looking at her. "That one there beside you, the blond that thinks he's wise to all that the Underground is about, he gave me that talk years ago." He applied a little pressure with the tension pick, then selected a different pick than the one he initially chose. "Blimey, who uses a lock like this anymore? It's like the damn thing was recycled from somewhere else," he muttered. He tried using that particular pick, then sighed and withdrew it, keeping the tension wrench in place. Looking down, Yusuf picked up his original ball pick. "Let's give it another go with this one. Worked on the first wafer very well, here's hoping for the rest."

"Does he always talk aloud like this?" Arthur whispered to Eames, looking around the hallway a little self-consciously.

"He missed his calling as a professor," Eames told him fondly. He chuckled at Ariadne's fascinated expression. "Well, perhaps he may yet have a student."

It took Yusuf another minute to pick the lock open; it definitely was nothing like the movies, which made him huff with laughter when Ariadne told him so. "Oh, no, miss. It takes actual skill and more than just a single hook pick to get the tumblers open. But that doesn't make for good drama. Most things on the telly aren't entirely accurate, you realize."

"Yes, I suppose it isn't," she replied with a put upon sigh. "The romance of the thing is gone once you actually understand how things work."

Arthur touched her back as they passed through the fire door. "Some still exists," he murmured softly, lips quirking into a smile in the corners.

Eames gave them both a fond yet filthy smile. "Of course. It just depends on your definition of romance, yes?"

"Dear God, you three. I'd tell you to get a fucking room but I'm the one that knows where they all are. Remember, we're not here to flirt, we're here to see if your mysterious baddie has been hiding on our Majesty's quid."

"Jealous we haven't included you yet?" Eames replied with a teasing grin. He looped an arm around Yusuf's shoulders, though all four of them knew there was no actual romantic intent behind the gesture. Yusuf pulled a face and laughed, tucking away his tools with a fond "Idiot," then led the way through the former government bunker. The former lavatories were clear to make out, with no new additions to make them useable. The air was musty and unpleasant, smelling of stagnant water. This was especially true in one corridor that Yusuf didn't take them down. "What's down there?"

"Nothing worth exploring even with wellies," Yusuf told them, a sad air in his tone. "It's just another way to head down to platform level. There are far more pleasant routes to take."

With nothing out of place compared to Yusuf's last visit, they headed back to the spiral stair to the old platform level, which had been partly bricked over and had a raised area that used to be the typists' pool, with a narrower area that had once been the walkway for civil servants to use getting around their workspace. Ariadne thought about the Statistical Office in Prague, with the relatively well lit cubicles she had worked in for weeks, and managed to repress a shudder. War was an unpleasant time, and working in a cubicle underground would have kept some poor typist safe from falling bombs. It was worth not seeing sunlight.

Another hallway once held committee rooms, and a staircase was partitioned down the center with the cutout for a door still visible. Yusuf wasn't even sure why this had been done, given that the entire staircase was blocked off at the other end. They continued through the corridors, finding no evidence of recent usage. There were disturbances in the dust patterns on the ground and in some areas, but Underground workers still used the station and tours were given occasionally. The new signage on the walls contrasted sharply with the tiled markers and signs left over from World War II or when Down Street was first built, "for the blokes that can't memorize a goddamned map," Yusuf grumbled.

It was in the "grey switch room" that Yusuf stopped cold. The entire room was full of switches and dials from its old days as an electrical switching post if the station had to go from general to backup power. At some point the entire room, even the overhead light bulb, had been painted a uniform coat of grey. Some of that paint on the bulb, however, had been chipped off. There were rough scrapes high along one wall, as if a ladder had fallen onto it. The next area that Yusuf led them to was the old telecommunications room, where all of the old World War II era equipment had been left behind and derelict. Most of the surfaces were covered by a thick layer of dust, and the operator table appeared crumbling. Thick swaths of dust had been scraped away from one area of the old telephone exchange, and it looked as though a flat metal box had been placed into one of the empty spaces.

"Needless to say, this is _not_ how it normally looks," Yusuf told them dryly. He waved them forward. "Go on, investigate."

Arthur retrieved the box, as he had the slimmest fingers, and Yusuf obligingly picked the cheap lock open for them. Inside was a collection of small bills totaling two hundred pounds, and a fully loaded magazine that would fit a Glock 19. Arthur recognized that right away. He pressed his lips into a thin line of discontent. "At the embassy, only three of us really liked using the Glock," he said shortly, tucking away the small box into a jacket pocket. "Me, Nash and Alistair. I know this can't be Alistair's, because he's even more OCD than I am about his equipment, and Nash was always a little sloppy, losing things and having to go back over his work to check that he got everything right. I wouldn't be surprised if this was taken out of his flat."

"Then we're close," Eames murmured, clapping him on the shoulder gently. "The sodding arse that bombed the embassy has to be about, then."

Nodding, he flashed Eames and Ariadne a faint smile, before gesturing for Yusuf to continue. "We can't stop now, not when obviously someone's been here that shouldn't have."

The formerly creepy aura of the disused station seemed to take on a more sinister air now. The fact that only hand torches truly lit the area and the occasional rumble of passing trains on the Piccadilly line added to feeling that the area could be haunted; sounds that were rattles, bangs or something almost like soft whispers coming down the abandoned corridors were not purely imagined in the dark. Eames hadn't mentioned it earlier and Yusuf hadn't thought to warn the three of them ahead of time, but Ariadne and Arthur's imaginations were off and running at this point, the very real threat of a terrorist hiding in the dark tunnels terrifying.

At the end of that short corridor was a doorway opening directly out onto the tracks. It was locked, and Yusuf saw no need to pick it open. This western end of the old station had been removed completely, providing access to another tunnel in the Underground system that had been built soon after Down Street station was closed. Generally only broken trains would be moved to that tunnel, or trains could be reversed before returning to the Piccadilly Line.

The dust that normally would be raised when trains approached had been completely swept clean, and the lock on this door was broken.

Yusuf quietly adjusted his bag and removed a SIG Sauer P239; Arthur recognized it by the silver slide and black frame. The slide looked unnaturally bright in the darkness of the tunnel, and Yusuf gave him a bland look. "I come prepared for many things, Arthur." He flicked an amused gaze toward Eames. "This one never brings me along for boring rides."

"You don't go out into the field often, Yusuf," Eames replied with a smile, reaching under his jacket for his own SIG Sauer. "I have to make each one count."

As Arthur reached for his Glock, Ariadne threw up her hands in exasperation. "Am I the only one that didn't come armed for this?"

"I brought you a Beretta, if that helps," Eames offered, taking it from the small of his back. He offered it to her butt first, and she accepted it gratefully. "I do have lots of other cunning hiding places, pet, so there will be more to play with should the need arise."

Yusuf snorted as Arthur rolled his eyes. "Ha bloody ha," he murmured. "Let's go find your terrorist and get him out of my goddamned tunnels."

Gas masks on, the four stood poised at the end of the hallway. Yusuf held up a hand for a moment, then there was the faint sound of a rumble in the distance. It started picking up in volume, and then Yusuf opened the door just as a train passed along the track. Massive amounts of dust flew up in clouds inside the tunnel, spreading outward in massive clouds. The significance of the swept floors outside of the door was much clearer now, especially once the train passed and the dust clouds settled.

Ahead of them was a large twelve person tent pitched with its entrance facing the tiled wall, wires coming from the tent and threading into other wires running along the wall. Guns out and fingers over trigger guards, the four crept closer. Yusuf fell into formation with the other three without being asked; Arthur made a mental note to ask later how he knew Eames as well as some of his other interesting skills. In the meantime, he was grateful for the additional cover.

Eames took the lead, pushing aside the opening flap on the tent with the hand holding the torch, his pistol in his other held tightly. His eyes widened slightly, and then he looked over to Arthur, nodding sharply back at the tent. Arthur came forward to check the flap, then frowned deeply at what he saw – Nash sleeping soundly thanks to sound cancellation headphones. Beside him was a laptop hooked into the wiring through Down Street station, and he was awaiting the completion of a large financial transfer to the Cayman Islands.

He recognized one of the accounts that was in the process of feeding that Cayman account. It was a CIA fund that had been used to finance clandestine missions, and one of the numbered accounts that had been part of the stolen documents that Nash had told him about that no one had been able to track while he was in Prague.

Rage burned through Arthur, white hot and immediate. He had thought Nash had been killed, and all along the bastard had been playing all of them for fools.

His finger was on the trigger of his Glock without him even consciously realizing it, aiming right for Nash's skull. Ariadne's comforting hand stayed him, and he shakily lowered the weapon and put his finger back on the trigger guard. "Maybe there's a reason for this," she told him, eyes kind and full of empathy. "It might not be what you think."

But what else could it be? The tent was large, stuffed full of creature comforts and folders full of stolen documents and financial data he should never have had.

"Tie him up and then wake him up," Arthur said, jaw tight and teeth grit. "Nash has quite a few answers to give us."

***

There was no need to find water to splash on Nash's face or to slap him. All they had to do was remove the noise cancelling headphones. The sheer volume of incoming trains was enough to startle him awake, and his first panicked expression on seeing Arthur was damning. "Wh-what's going on?" he stammered once he realized his arms were tied together behind him. "Arthur?" he asked, voice warbling. After being in the tunnel system for who knew how long, his brown hair was stringy, he was unshaven and unwashed. It was a far cry from the CIA agent that Arthur had known well, but the thought that Nash might be involved in stealing financial data from the agency was fueling his ire.

"Did you just use the opportunity to steal the money in the accounts, or did you orchestrate the entire thing?" Arthur asked, barely able to control his fury. "Did you kill our fellow agents, Nash? Were you the one pulling the strings? Or did you just dance over their dead bodies to pad your paycheck?"

The panic was only in Nash's eyes now. The rest of his expression shut down. "What are you talking about, Arthur?"

He followed Arthur's gaze to the laptop, where the monetary transfer was paused. "I can always try to reverse it, put the money back in the original accounts."

"You can't do that without the password."

"You seem fairly certain of that," Eames commented. Yusuf and Ariadne hung back, observing everything as Arthur glared at Nash. He stared back defiantly now, determined not to give anything away.

"That pause won't last forever," Nash told them, eyes narrowing. He didn't even bother to pretend that he didn't know what was going on. "I'm willing to cut you in. Even a small share of the take will be more than you make in a year, Arthur. Don't be stupid."

Arthur's eyes narrowed to slits, jaw tight. "How much can you afford to give away?"

Misunderstanding what Arthur was asking, Nash gave him a grin that was meant to be reassuring but came across as smarmy instead. "There's no one else to split it with anymore. So there's four of you? There's plenty to give your friends a cut."

Arthur lifted Nash by the front of his shirt, shaking him. "How much were their lives worth, Nash? Those people you had killed? How much blood money was it worth?"

Nash's teeth rattled in his jaws, and the breath whooshed out of him when Arthur dropped him to the floor. There wasn't much padding beneath the tent, not enough to cushion his fall. Eames winced at the sound Nash made, the way his wrist made a cracking sound when he landed on his bound hands. He cried out in pain, then glared at Arthur with a hatred equal to his. "So fucking idealistic. The pay we get, even hazard pay, is a pittance. There's so much redundancy, so much waste, they won't notice or care about an account or two disappearing. It doesn't get used anyway so I might as well take it. There's no pension for us that would equal that amount. Don't be a fool, Arthur. Just take the money and run."

"So what was Cobol promised? The same line you're giving me now?"

"That idiot thought he could get one over on the agency. He deserved everything he got."

"You set him up to die, then," Eames murmured. "You played his greed to make sure that you got what you wanted, and you didn't care if it would get him killed."

"He's a lowlife thug that no one could ever catch. Who gives a fuck what happens to him?"

"And the agents that died at London Station? What of them?" Arthur snarled.

"Oh, look at you. As if you gave a damn what happened to those losers," Nash snapped. His eyes strayed to the laptop, and he frowned. "What did you do? It shouldn't pause this long without prompting the password to confirm."

Arthur's smile was chilling. "For someone that constantly bragged about being detail oriented, you missed some very important details."

Nash didn't understand it, and looked from the laptop to Arthur. "What the hell did you do?!"

"The real question is what do we do now?" Ariadne interrupted. "There's no red file because no one knows he's even alive, let alone the mastermind for the attacks. We have the paperwork and the laptop as proof, but it might be months before anything formal is done." The withering expression on her face as she looked at Nash clearly telegraphed her choice of action. "Your agency, Arthur. You should decide."

He stared at Nash as if seeing him for the first time, as if waking up from a dream gone horribly wrong. "Everything you've ever said or done in the entire time I've known you has been a lie."

"Stop pretending that the agency actually gives a shit about what happens to us, Arthur. They don't care about what happens to the individual as long as they get what they want. I'm just getting mine before they destroy me. Now tell me, _what the hell did you do to my account?"_ he snarled, hurling himself at Arthur as best as he could.

Arthur stepped back and pressed his Glock against Nash's temple. "Give me another reason, Nash. Just one."

"Fuck you, Arthur. You don't have the balls to do it." He gave Arthur a smile that sent chills down Ariadne's spine. "You're big on plans, but you never saw this. _Months_ of work went into this, finding all the weak spots, getting the timing down. You're just as big a fool as everyone else at the agency, and you don't have the balls to do what needs to be done."

Without another word, Arthur pulled the trigger.

Ariadne gasped, though it was hidden by the sharp report of the bullet flying through Nash's skull, blood and brain matter spattering everywhere behind him. She looked at him with wide eyes, seeing the same stark expression on his face that he had in Prague after torturing Cobol for information. He didn't enjoy hurting others; it was part of the reason why he had joined the CIA in the first place. He was unflinchingly loyal and would absolutely do what needed to be done, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have to live with the consequences.

Eames was closer, and put his hand over Arthur's to lower the gun. "It's over, Arthur," he said quietly. Arthur stared at the blood pooling beneath Nash's body. "It's over," he repeated a little louder, tugging on his arm. "You stopped the bastard."

Yusuf pulled the plug on the laptop and watched the screen wink out. It had been his idea to take out the battery and then simply shut off the wireless and Ethernet connections when Arthur couldn't figure out a proper password. The transfer of funds could time out and fail, depending on how Nash had set up the transfer. The information was in all of the paperwork, and wire transfers could still take days to fully fund Nash's illicit accounts. Though Nash could no longer benefit from the millions he was trying to steal, it could still take days to weeks to be certain that the money was back where it belonged. Depending on how he set up the transfer, different banks might also take chunks out of the principal for their transfer fees. It was going to be a mess to sort out, and he was glad it wasn't his job.

Ariadne was getting the paperwork together before the blood could stain it, and then she moved to stand in Arthur's view. "Let's go home, Arthur," she said clearly, one hand on his chest.

He moved slowly, as if underwater, looking from her to Eames and blinking. "Home."

"Yeah. Tube tunnels might be Yusuf's cup of tea to explore, but I'd rather be aboveground and tucked in a nice warm bed," Eames told him. "Come on. I dare say I have the bigger flat between the three of us. You're coming home with me."

"You've never been to mine," Arthur replied, brows knit in confusion.

"Doesn't mean I don't know where you live," Eames replied with a cheeky grin, shuffling him backward and out of the tent. He gave Yusuf a covert look and then flicked his glance toward the tent in a silent plea for his friend to take care of it. At Yusuf's solemn nod in return, Eames visibly relaxed and slung an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Besides, all the good takeaway and pubs are close to my flat."

"Eames..."

Yusuf handed Ariadne the laptop and gestured for her to take his bag to store the material they found. "Why are we discussing this now?" she asked, looking between the other men as if they had lost their minds.

Eames refused to be deterred as he steered Arthur toward the doorway they had come from, making sure he had gas masks in case a train came down the track. "You two should move in. Or we can find a bigger flat that can fit us more comfortably."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur demanded, stopping and planting his feet firmly on the ground. "That," he snarled, gesturing toward the tent, "still needs to be taken care of."

"Yes. And it will. And there are other more practical matters to decide as well," Eames said patiently. "I'll put in for a more permanent role in London, though I can't promise MI6 won't send me overseas if Queen and country needs me." He grasped Arthur's arm and gestured for Ariadne to follow. "You of course will stay on in London Station, and I can't imagine that our dear Ariadne would want to leave London now, not when it's getting exciting."

"Wait," Ariadne called out, hurrying toward them. Eames obligingly waited for her, blithely ignoring Arthur's confused scowl. "Are you saying you want this to be permanent?"

"Of course. Don't you?"

The words were flippant, but the expression on his face was not. She remembered his quiet words in Prague and in his apartment just before they left, the way he had been so careful with her and Arthur's sensibilities. Whatever it was between the three of them, it was more than simply a partnership between three agencies. She didn't have a name for it, but perhaps there didn't have to be. Perhaps they could simply settle into it more, figure out along the way how to make it work.

She smiled and saw his own mouth twitch into a wider smile in response to hers. "Yeah. I think I'd like that."

"Well, then. Let's go present our findings to our respective offices and let Arthur plan the details of this adventure." He started a little. "What? You're the better planner among us three, aren't you? You'll make it work."

"You're awfully sure of yourself," Arthur intoned, still frowning. It was less furious and confused, though when he looked back toward the tent, regret was clearly there. "It's still going to be dangerous."

"Darling," Eames scoffed. "You say that like I don't enjoy that sort of thing."

Yusuf exited the tent, whistling slightly. "We'd better get back topside," he said with a cheerful smile. "And use the masks. There's a gas leak down here, you know. Must be careful before any fires break out along the line."

With that, the four of them swiftly headed back toward the Down Street station, locking everything behind them.

***

Arthur went to the September 11 memorial service as he had originally planned to do before the embassy bombing the month before. It was strange how some things didn't really change and were exactly the same. Security was increased and there was still considerable damage to the embassy building, but it was amazing what a month of intense repair could do. He could still pick out the areas of new tile, the scuff marks from the bomb blast and debris. If he didn't look for it, he could allow his eyes to gloss over the marks as if they were invisible.

He would have gone alone to the service, but now he was with Eames and Ariadne. She sat between them, as if knowing any stray remarks Eames made would rattle him too badly. Eames was on his best behavior, however, and was unfailingly polite to all of the agents present. He was every inch the consummate professional, dressed to the nines in a dark tailored suit that Arthur was surprised he even owned, let alone would wear. If he hadn't watched Eames get dressed that morning, he would have thought he was dreaming it. Ariadne was in a dove gray suit that wasn't quite so boxy or severe as the one she had worn when they first met, and she sat between them with a respectful and proper air. It was soothing, just as she no doubt meant it to be.

He didn't like not knowing what would come next. He didn't like it when his plans completely fell apart. Even a month ago he would have laughed at any predictions he would be in a romantic relationship, let alone carry on something with two people simultaneously. It wasn't structured, wasn't predictable. That was not like him at all, but at the same his mind balked at imagining a future without them now.

As if sensing his unease, Ariadne took hold of his hand tightly. "I'm here," she murmured, just softly for him to hear.

Eames leaned forward a little and looked at Arthur in concern. "Need to step out for a mo'?" he asked quietly.

Arthur shook his head. "I'm all right."

"Because if you need another distraction like this morning, either one of us would be happy to help, I'm sure," Eames continued in that same conversational tone. This time it was clear he was making a more sexual comment, as he had spent that morning on his knees in front of Arthur as Ariadne covered his face and neck in kisses. Arthur flushed and stared straight ahead, not replying. "Pity," Eames added after a beat, leaning back in place. "I rather liked that."

"Not now," Ariadne admonished, voice barely above a whisper.

"Just distracting our Arthur," he replied with the barest of shrugs. "Too glum just now."

"Do you blame him?"

Eames paused, thoughtful. "No. But it doesn't mean I like seeing him that way."

"I can hear you," Arthur hissed, looking over at Eames in irritation.

He grinned at Arthur. "Of course. That was rather the point. After the speeches, let me whisk you both away for the rest of the afternoon."

Arthur nodded, then faced front again. Eames didn't miss the squeeze he gave Ariadne's hand, or the way his lips softened a little so that his expression wasn't so severe. He smiled a little himself, settling into his seat to listen. The Memorial Garden had been built years before, and it was both a serene and fitting location for the service. There were so many dignitaries present, including US Ambassador Louis Susman, Prince Charles and Prime Minister Cameron. The security was unobtrusive at least, though sometimes Eames found it a distracting game to try to locate the obvious and not so obvious guards.

Toward the close of Ambassador Susman's short speech, Eames was particularly struck by his words: "We admire those of you here today who have reconstructed your lives from the ruins of grief. We draw strength and inspiration from your example."

The trick to surviving tragedy wasn't always in knowing how to fight back. Sometimes it was in knowing who to rely on afterward. The three of them had each other now, for better or for worse. God help anyone else that tried to ruin what they held dear.

The end.


End file.
